m 







^^■: 






■ -■■•:«•■ ;..-•-■'- : ; 









'■-• ■-» '.1 A'. '4. 



, r-^ .,.-:rr .^ur* - -^i 











^<.^^^.,-^v:'^■c.^^^,.■■•.:=•■ 







' " ■ «rv>' .■v•■ 







"-^*'. 



"i^^; 






^>^: 


















:■•*;•"> 'iK-^ 



->•> 



.«^: 



^ 



>i^^ 




1 — Oregon, i86S. 
2— I-ondon, 1S70. 



3— Cuba, 1876. S— I,ouisville, Ky., 1897. 

4 -San Francisco, 1887. 6 -In the Sierras, 1882. 



The Complete Poetical Works 



J oaquin iyliller. 




THE RIGHTS. 



vS A X Francisco: 
THE W H I T A K I-: R cS: KAY CO. 

( INCORPOR.ATF.D ) 

18 97 




F 



,y3 




Copyrighted 
by 

THE WHITAKER & RAV CO., 
SAN FRANCISCO, 

1897. 



t^O-Cc^- 1^-'^^''^ 



M 



X 



PREFACE. 



I HAVE BEEN SO biisy and bothered all my life till late years that I have had to 
hastily feed my corn out, weed or flower or ripe corn from the four quarters of the 
world, with a pitchfork, as I ran. Hence the need of this revision. And yet, even 
now, after all my cutting and care, I am far from satisfied, and can commend to my 
lovers only the few last poems in the book. True, the earlier ones have color and 
clime and perfume of wood or waste, and I am not ungrateful for the friends they 
brought me, biit I fear they fall short of the large eternal lesson which the seer is 
born to teach — the vision of worlds beyond. I have tried to mend this fault in my 
later work; to give my new poems not only body but soul. 

The purpose here, outside of revising entirely and gathering into this book 
such poems as are to be preserved, is to blaze some trees along the trail; a note of 
warning here, a campfire there, the experience of a pioneer; so that those who come 
after may not falter or go astray in the wilderness that darkens along the foothills 
of Olympus. George Sand said all Americans are poets. Certainly all American 
writers are poets, or, as a rule, begin as such. True, many of our great lawyers 
began by writing poetry, like Blackstone. Perhaps our greatest poets at heart 
never took the M'orld into confidence at all in the maturity of power, but kept a cold 
and severe visage for all men, and went to their graves as practical merchants, 
lawyers, doctors, and so on, with only one little corner of the heart for flowers and 
a bird all their own. And what pleasure to write for such readers! 

There are others — not in business or disposed to be — those who would or could 
be poets, and yet will not. Let me address myself to these, for thej' have foolish 
notions as to what a poet is and what it costs to be a poet, or rather what it costs 
to not be a poet. 

A great land without a great literature, were such a thing possible, must be to 
the end worse than spouseless. Jerusalem was ever but a small place. You can 
cover her on the map of the world with a pin's head, yet is she more than all the 
Babylous that have been. She loved, and devoutly loved, the sublime and the beau- 
tiful. From this love was born her poets. The cedars of Lebanon, the lilies of the 
valley, these were the first letters of their alphabet. And as there cannot be a great 
land on the page of history without first a great literature, so there cannot be a great 
literature without first a deep, broad, devout and loving religion. 

The great poet of this great land of ours, these westmost mountains and the ulti- 
mate sea bank, so like the olive-set Syrian hills, will come when we, too, have 
learned to love, and religiously love, the sublime and beautiful. 

Why not permit the coming poet to take up his work in the morning of life 
where it is now laid down in the twilight of one who is going away? 

To this end let us divest the prophets of all that mystery and special evil and 
special good with which ignorance and superstition have garmented them. They 
were ever plain men. They were ever human; and the more human the broader, 
richer, dee]3er their divine voices of the laud. 



VI «»REFACE. 

Is there sxich a thing as genius, inspiration? I think there is no such thing, 
Eather let us call it a devout and all-pervading love for the sublime, the beautiful 
and good, the never-questioning conviction that there is nothing in this world that 
is not beautiful or trying to be beautiful; that there is no man with the breath of 
God in his nostrils who is not good or trying in his poor, blind way as best he may 
to be good. "And He looked upon all He had made and behold it was very good." 

Genius is love that is born of this truth, leading ever by plain and simple ways, 
and true toil and care, as all nature toils and cares, as God toils and cares; that is all. 
I write this down for those who may come after. We will have higher results from 
the plain sweet truth. 

And when your great poet comes, as he surely will and soon, do not mock because 
he goes apart from folly or trade to meditate. Ever from the first the prophets 
went up into the mountains to pray. A poet need not be " eccentric " to turn apart 
from getting and getting. In truth he would be no real poet if he did not. A good 
poet need not be a bad man. He may not be a better man than yourself, but he is 
not necessarily worse for being a poet. I repeat, he is merely a plain, sincere human 
being in love with the beautiful world " and all that is His." 

Byron, in a letter to Moore, says, "The night to me has been everything." In 
another he says, "I read Spenser half the time, as I write Childe Harold, in order 
to keep the measure and melody in my brain." Burns says, "I keep as many as 
half a dozen poems maturing in my mind at the same time, and write them down 
when matured and I find time." These and like little side lights from other great 
poets have done me so much good that I have decided to tell by way of foot- 
notes as we go forward so much of my own methods of work as may possibly light 
the path of some discouraged Keats of coming days. For the greater the poet 
the greater his sensibility, and the greater the sensibility the greater his sufferings 
in the somber foothill forests of Parnassus. 

Also for the help and good of the poets who may take up my work where I 
lay it down, divested of all folly and falsehood with which it has been so cruelly 
garmented from the first, I shall write the story, source, purpose of my poems, so 
far as may be of use and interest. The photographs are put in to show that, what- 
ever there may be in eccentricity of dress and manner, I dressed and bore myself as 
others and kept quietly and plainly along about my work like other men mainly. 

The first thing of mine in print was the valedictory class poem, Columbia College, 
Eugene, Oregon, 1859. Oregon, settled by missionaries, was a great place for schools 
from the first. At this date, Columbia College, the germ of the University, had 
many students from California, and was famous as an educational center. Divest 
the mind at once of the idea that the schools of Oregon were in the least inferior to 
the best in the world. I have never since found such determined students and om- 
niverous readers. We had all the books and none of the follies of great centers. 

I had been writing, or trying to write, since a lad. My two brothers and my sister 
were at my side, our home with our parents, and we lived entirely to ourselves, and 
really often made ourselves ill from too much study. We were all school teachers 
when not at college. In 1861 my elder brother and I were admitted to practice law, 
under George H. Williams, afterwards Attorney-General undftr President Grant. 
Brother went at once to the war, I to the gold mines. 



PREFACE. vii 

My first act there came near costing my life, and cost me, through snow-blind- 
ness, the best use of my eyes from that time forth. The agony of snow-blindness 
is unutterable; the hurt irreparable. In those days men never murmured or ad- 
mitted themselves put at disadvantage. I gave up the law for the time and laid 
hand to other things; but here is a paragraph from the February (1897) Oregon 
Teacher, telling how this calamity came about: 

"The first man I met among the fevered crowd was Oregon s poet, my old 
schoolmate, Joaquin Miller. His blue eyes sparkled with kindly greeting, and, as 
I took his hand, I knew by its quickening pulse and tightened clasp that he, too, 
was sharing in the excitement of the gold hunter. He was then in the first flush of 
manhood, with buoyant spirits, untiring energy, and among a race of hardy pio- 
neers, the bravest of the brave. He possessed more than ordinary talent and 
looked forward with hope to the battle of life, expecting to reap his share of its hon- 
ors and rewards. For years he was foremost in every desperate enterprise — crossing 
snow-capped mountains, swollen rivers, and facing hostile Indians. When snow 
fell fifteen feet on Florence mountain, and hundreds were penned in camp withont 
a word from wives, children and loved ones at home, he said, 'Boys, I will bring 
your letters from Lewistou.' Afoot and alone, without a trail, he crossed the moun- 
tain tops, the dangerous streams, the wintry desert of Camas Prairie, fighting back 
the hungry mountain wolves, and returned bending beneath his load of loving mes- 
sages from home. One day he was found, in defense of the weak, facing the pistol 
or bowie knife of the desperado; and the next day he was washing the clothes and 
smoothing the pillow of a sick comrade. We all loved him, but we were not men 
who wrote for the newspaper or magazine, and his acts of heroism and kindness 
were unchrouicled save in the hearts of those who knew him in those times and 
under those trying circumstances." 

Eight into the heart of the then unknown and unnamed Idaho {Idah-ho) and 
Montana; gold dust was as wheat in harvest time. I, and another, born to the 
saddle, formed an express line and carried letters in from the Oregon river and gold 
dust out, gold dust by the horse load after horse load, till we earned all the gold we 
wanted. Such rides! and eachaloue. Indians holding the plunging horses readyfor 
us at relays. I had lived with and knew, trusted the red men and was never betrayed. 
Those matchless night rides under the stars, dashing into the Orient doors of dawn 
before me as the sun burst through the shining mountain pass — this brought my 
love of song to the surface. And now I traveled, Mexico, South America, I hadie- 
solved as I rode to set these unwritten lands with the banner of song. 

I wrote much as I traveled but never kept my verses, once published. I thought, 
and still hold that under right conditions and among a right people— and these mighty 
American people are perhaps more nearly right than any other that have yet been — 
anything in literature that is worth preserving will preserve itself. As none of my 
verses with this following exception have come down on the river of Time it is safe 
to say nothing of all I wrote could serve any purpose except to feed foolish curi- 
osity. I give the following place, written years after the college valedictory, not 
only because it is right in spirit but because it shows how old, how very old I was 
as a boy, and sad at heart over the cruelties of man to man. This was my first poem 
printed, after the valedictory, about 1866, and has been drifting around ever since: 



VIU PREFACE. 

IS IT WOETH WHILE? 

Is it worth while that we jostle a brother 

Bearing his load on the rough road of life? 

Is it worth while that we jeer at each other 

In blackness of heart ? — that we war to the knife? 
God pity us all in our pitiful strife. 

God pity us all as we jostle each other ; 

God pardon us all for the triumphs we feel 
When a fellow goes down; poor heart-broken brother, 

Pierced to the heart ; words are keener than steel. 

And mightier far for woe or for weal. 

Were it not well in this brief little journey 

On over the isthmus down into the tide, 
We give him a fish instead of a serpent, 

Ere folding the hands to be and abide 

For ever and aye in dust at his side? 

Look at the roses saluting each other ; 

Look at the herds all at peace on the plain — 

Man, and man only, makes war on his brother. 
And dotes in his heart on his peril and pain — 
Shamed by the brutes that go down on the plain. 

Why should you envy a moment of pleasure 

Some poor fellow-mortal has wrung from it all? 

Oh! could you look into his life's broken measure — 
Look at the dregs — at the wormwood and gall — 
Look at his heart hung with crape like a pall — 

Look at the skeletons down by his hearthstone — 
Look at his cares in their merciless sway, 

I know you would go and say tenderly, lowly, 
Brother — my brother, for aye and a day, 
Lo! Lethe is washing the blackness away. 

Home again in Oregon I had a little newspaper in the interest of Peace, my 
Quaker father's creed, and opposing the " March to the Sea" and the invasion of 
States, the paper was suppressed for alleged treason. Poor ouce more, broken in 
heart and health, the gold mines again; then a campaign against an insurrection of 
savages; then elected Judge; and once more my face to books, night and day, as at 
school. 

Had I melted into my surroundings, instead of reading and writing continually, 
life had not been so dismal; but I lived among the stars, an abstemious ghost. 
Then "Specimens," a thin book of verse, and some lawyers laughed, and political 



PREFACE. IX 

and personal foes all up and down the land derided. This made me more deter- 
mined, and the next year " Joaquin e< aZ.," a book of 124 pages, resulted. Bret 
Harte, of the Overland, behaved bravely; but, as a rule: " Can any good thing come 
out of Nazareth ? " 

The first little book has not preserved itself to me, but from a London pirated 
copy of the second one I find that it makes up about half of my first book in Lon- 
don; the songs my heart had sung as I galloped alone under the stars of Idaho 
years before. 

But my health and eyes had failed again; besides, everything was at sixes and 
sevens, and, being a "cold water man," and a sort of preacher and teacher on all 
political occasions, I was so unpopular that when I asked a place on the Supreme 
Bench at the convention, I was derisively told: "Better stick to poetry." Three 
months later, September 1, 1870, I was kneeling at the grave of Burns. I really 
expected to die there in the land of my fathers; I was so broken and ill. 

May I proudly admit that I had sought a place on the Supreme Bench in order 
that I might the more closely stick to poetry ? I have a serious purpose in saying 
this. Was Lowell a bad diplomat because he was a good poet? Is Gladstone less 
great because of his three hundred books and pamphlets? The truth is there never 
was, never will be, a great general, judge, lawyer, anything, without being, at heart 
at least, a great poet. Then let not our conventions, presidents, governors, despise 
the young poet who does seek expression. We have plenty of lawyers, judges, 
silent great men of all sorts; yet the land is songless. Had my laudable ambition 
not been despised, how much better I might have sang; who shall say? 

Let us qiiote a few lines from the last pages of my little book, published before 
setting out. They will show, not poetry perhaps, but resignation, a belief in im- 
mortality, a hope to be read in Europe, and a singularly early desire to not be 
formally buried, but to pass in clouds and ashes. The little book, "Joaquin et al.," 
from which the following lines were taken, was first published in Portland (Oregon) 
in 1868: 

ULTIME. 

Had I been content to live on the leafy borders of the scene 
Communing with the neglected dwellers of the fern-grown gleu. 

And glorious storm-stained peaks, with cloud-knit sheen, 

And sullen iron brows, and belts of boundless green, 
A peaceful, flowery path, content, I might have trod, 

And carolled melodies that perchance might have been 
Read with love and a sweet delight. But I kiss the rod. 
I have done as best I knew. The rest is with my God. 

Come forward here to me, ye who have a fear of death. 
Come down, far down, even to the darkjwaves' rim, 

And take my hand, and feel my calm, low breath; 
How peaceful all! How still and sweet! The sight is dim, 
And dreamy as a distant sea. And melodies do swim 



X PREFACE. 



Around us here as a far-off vesper's holy hymu. 

This is death. With folded hands I wait and welcome him; 
And yet a few, some few, were kind, I would live and so be known, 
That their sweet deeds might be as bread on the waters thrown. 

I go, I know not where, but know I will not die, 
And know I will be gainer going to that somewhere; 

For in that hereafter, afar beyond the bended sky, 
Bread and butter will not figure in the bill of fare, 
Nor will the soul be judged by what the flesh may wear. 

But with all my time my own, once in the dapple skies, 
I will collect my fancies now floating in the air 

And arrange them, a jewel set, that in a show-case lies 

And when you come will show you them in a sweet surprise. 

It was my boy-ambition to be read beyond the brine. 
But this you know was when life looked fair and tall, 

Erewhile this occidental rim was my dream's confine, 
And now at last I make no claim to be read at all. 
And write with this wild hope, and even that is small, 

That when the last pick-ax lies rusting in the ravine, 
And its green beut hill-sides echo the shepherd's call. 

Some curious wight will thumb this through, saying, "Well, I ween 

He was not a poet, but yet, and yet, he might have been." 



But to conclude. Do not stick me down in th6 cold wet mud, 

As if I wished to hide, or was ashamed of what I had done. 
Or my friends believed me born of slime, with torpid blood. 

No, when this the first short quarter of my life is run. 

Let me ascend in clouds of smoke up to the sun. 
And as for these lines, they are a rough, wild-wood bouquet. 

Plucked from my mountains in the dusk of life, as one 
Without taste or time to select, or put in good array. 
Grasps at once rose, leaf, briar, on the brink, and hastes away. 

Fault may be found, as with Hawthorne when he gathered up his Tales, that all 
I have written is not here. Let me answer with him that all I wish to answer for 
is here. The author must be the sole judge as to what belongs to the public and 
what to the flames. Much that I have written has been on trial for many years. 
The honest, wise old world of to-day is a fairly safe jury. While it is true the poet 
must lead rather than be led, yet must he lead pleasantly, patiently, or he may not 
lead at all. So that which the world let drop out of sight as the years surged by 
I have, as a rule, not cared to introduce a second time. 

For example take the lines written on the dead millionaire of New York. There 



PREFACE. XI 



were perhaps a dozen verses at first, but the world found use for and kept before it 
only the two following: 

The gold that with the sunlight lies 

In bursting heaps at dawn, 
The silver spilling from the skies 

At night to walk upon, 
The diamonds gleaming in the dew 
He never saw, he never knew. 

He got some gold, dug from the mud. 

Some silver, crushed from stones; 
But the gold was red with dead men's blood, 

The silver black with groans ; 
And when he died he moaned aloud 
" They'll make no pocket in my shroud." 

The antithesis of this ugly truth in poetry, the lines to Peter Cooper's memory 
also shared the same fate. The world did not want all I had to say of this gentle 
old man and kept only the three little verses: 

Honor and glory forever more 

To this great man gone to restj 
Peace on the dim Plutonian shore; 

Rest in the land of the blest. 

I reckon him greater than any man 

That ever drew sword in war; 
Nobler, better than king or khan, 

Better, wiser by far. 

Aye, wisest he in this whole wide land, 

Of hoarding till bent and gray; 
For all you can hold in your cold, dead hand 

Is what you have given away. 

May I, an old teacher, in conclusion, lay down a lesson or two for the young in 
letters? After the grave of Burns, then a month at Byron's tomb, then Schiller, 
Goethe; before battle fields. Heed this. The poet must be loj^al, loyal not only to 
his God and his country, but loyal, loving, to the great masters who have nourished 
him. 

This devotion to the masters led me to first set foot in London near White Chapel, 
where Bayard Taylor had lived; although I went at once to the Abbey. Then I lived at 
Camberwell, because Browning was born there; then at Hemmingford Koad, because 
Tom Hood died there. 

A thin little book now, called " Pacific Poems," and my watch was in pawn before 



XU PREFACE. 



it was out, for I could not find a publisher. One hundred were printed, bearing the 
name of the printer as publisher. What fortune! With the press notices in hand, 
I now went boldly to the most aristocratic publisher in London. 

As to the disposal of our dead, except so far as it tends to the good of the living, 
most especially the poor, who waste so much which they can ill spare in burials, 
the young poet may say or do as he elects. But in the matters of resignation to the 
Infinite and belief in immortality, he shall have no choice. There never was a poet 
and there never will be a poet who disputed God, or so degraded himself as to doubt 
his eternal existence. 

One word as to the choice of theme. First, let it be new. The world has no use 
for two Homers, or even a second Shakespeare, were he possible. 

And now think it not intrusion if one no longer young should ask the coming 
poet to not waste his forces in discovering this truth: The sweetest flowers grow 
closest to the ground. We are all too ready to choose some lurid battle theme or 
exalted subject. Exalt your theme rather than ask joxir theme to exalt you. Braver 
and better to celebrate the lowly and forgiving grasses under foot than the stately 
cedars and sequoias overhead. They can speak for themselves. It has been scorn- 
fully said that all my subjects are of the low or savage. It might have been as 
truly said that some of my heroes and heroines, as Keil and Sophia Petrowska, died 
on the scaffold. But believe me, the people of heart are the unfortunate. How 
unfortunate that man who never knew misfortune! And thank God, the heart of 
the world is with the unfortunate! There never has yet been a great poem written 
of a rich man or gross. And I glory in the fact that I never celebrated war or 
warriors. Thrilling as are war themes, you will not find one, purposely, in all my 
books. If you would have the heart of the world with you, put heart in your work, 
taking care that you do not try to pass brass for gold. They are much alike to look 
upon, but only the ignorant can be deceived. And what is poetry without heart! 
In truth, were I asked to define poetry, I would answer in a single word. Heart. 

A true seer will see that which is before him, and about him, in and of his own 
land and life. "The eyes of the fool are in the ends of the earth." The real and 
reasonable should best inspire us. I do not care to explore impossible hells with either 
dolorous Dante or majestic Milton. I do not believe there are any STich places, save 
as we make them in our own minds. Indeed, life would be fearful could I be made 
to believe that the heart of this beautiful globe is filled with human beings writhing 
in eternal torments under my feet. Such books can do no good; and the only ex- 
cuse for any book is the pleasure it can give and the good it can do. 

Let me again invoke you, be loyal to your craft, not only to your craft, but to your 
fellow scribes. To let envy lure you to leer at even the humblest of them is to 
admit yourself beaten; to admit yourself to be one of the thousand failures betray- 
ing the one success. Braver it were to knife in the back a holy man at prayer. I 
plead for something more than the individual here. I plead for the entire Republic. 
To not have a glorious literature of our own is to be another Nineveh, Babylon, 
Turkey. Nothing ever has paid, nothing ever will pay a nation like poetry. How 
many millions have we paid, are still paying, bleak and rocky little Scotland to behold 
the land of Burns? Byron led the world to scatter its gold through the ruins of 
Italy, where he had mused and sang, and Italy was rebuilt. Greece survived a 



PREFACE. 



XIU 



thousand years on the deathless melodies of her mighty dead, and now once again is 
the heart of the globe. 

Finally, use the briefest little bits of baby Saxon words at hand. The world is 
waiting for ideas, not for words. Eemember Shakespeare's scorn of " words, words, 
words." Eemember always that it was the short Roman sword that went to the 
heart and conquered the world, not the longtasseled and bannered lance of the bar- 
barian. Write this down in red and remember. 

Will we ever have an American literature? Yes, when we leave sound and words 
to the winds. American science has swept time and space aside. American science 
dashes along at fifty, sixty miles an hour; but American literature still lumbers along 
in the old-fashioned English stage-coach at ten miles an hour; and sometimes with 
a red-coated outrider blowing a horn. We must leave all this behind us. We have 
not time for words. A man who uses a great big sounding word when a short one 
will do is to that extent a robber of time. A jewel that depends greatly on its set- 
ting is not a great jewel. When the Messiah of American literature comes he will 
come singing, so far as may be, in words of a single syllable. 




To 

COLLIS P. HUNTINGTON, 

Who was first to lead the steel shod cavalry of conquest 
through the Sierras to the Sea of Seas, and who has 
done the greater West and South more endtcring good 
than any other living man, I dedicate this final revision 
of my complete poems. 

JOAQUIN MILLER. 
The Hights, Cal., 

1897. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

SONGS OF THE SIEKKAS 1 

The Arizonian 1 

With Walkkr in Nicaragua 9 

The Tale of the Tall Alcalde 19 

The Last Taschastas 31 

Joaquin Murietta 36 

Ina 41 

Even So 50 

Myrrh 55 

Kit Carson's Eide 57 

When Little Sister Came 61 

OLIVE LEAVES 63 

At Bethlehem 63 

La Notte 63 

In Palestine 63 

Beyond Jordan 64 

Faith 64 

Hope 64 

Charity 65 

The Last Supper 66 

A Song for Peace 66 

SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS 69 

The Sea of Fire , 69 

Isles of the Amazons 82 

An Indian Summer 109 

From Sea to Sea 113 

A Song of the South , 116 

THE SHIP IN THE DESEET 139 

PICTUEES , 163 

The Sierras from the Sea 163 

Where Eolls the Oregon 164 

Picture of a Bull 165 

Vaquero 160 

In the Great Emerald Land 166 



XVI CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Pilgrims of the Plains 166 

The Heroes of My West 169 

England 170 

London 170 

St. Paul's 171 

Westminster Abbey 171 

At Lord Byron's Tomb , 171 

To Rest at Last 172 

Before Cortes Came 173 

In the Sierras 174 

Prophecy 174 

Question 175 

Thomas of Tigre 176 

Mrs. Frank Leslie 176 

The Poet 177 

Dyspeptic 177 

Vale! America 179 

The Quest of Love 182 

Africa 183 

Crossing the Plains 184 

The Men of Forty-Nine 185 

The Heroes of America 186 

Attilla's Throne: Torcello 186 

Westward Ho! 187 

Venice 188 

A Hailstorm in Venice 189 

Santa Maria : Torcello 189 

Carmen 190 

To the Jersey Lily 190 

In a Gondola 191 

LATEE POEMS 193 

The Gold that Grew by Shasta Town 193 

The Sioux Chief's Daughter 194 

To THE Czar 196 

To Russia 197 

To Eachel in Eussia 197 

The Bravest Battle 198 

ElEL, THE EEBEL 198 



CONTENTS. XVll 



PAGE. 

A Christmas Eve in Cuba 199 

Comanche 200 

The Soldiers' Home, Washington 201 

Olive 203 

The Battle Flag of Shenandoah 203 

The Lost Eegiment 204 

CCSTER 206 

The World is a Better World 206 

Outside of Church 206 

Down the Mississippi at Night 206 

A Nubian Face on the Nile 206 

La Exposicion : New Orleans 207 

Lincoln Park 207 

The Kiver of Kest 207 

The New President 207 

Montgomery at Quebec 208 

By the Balboa Seas 208 

Magnolia Blossoms 208 

California's Christmas 208 

Those Perilous Spanish Eyes 209 

Newport News 209 

The Coming of Spring 209 

Our Heroes of To-Day 210 

By the Lower Mississippi 211 

Her Picture 211 

Drowned 212 

After the Battle 213 

By the Pacific Ocean 213 

Christmas by the Great Kiver 214 

Grant at Shiloh 214 

Twilight at the Hights 215 

Arbor Day 215 

Peter Cooper 215 

The Dead Millionaire 215 

The Larger College 216 

The Poem by the Potomac 217 

A Dead Carpenter 218 

Old Gib at Castle Eocks 218 



XVm CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Don't Stop at the Station Despair 221 

The Fortunate Isles 221 

Back to the Golden Gate 22 1 

Dead in the Long, Strong Grass 222 

Garfield 222 

To THE California Pioneers 224 

Java 224 

Mother Egypt 225 

The Passing of Tennyson 225 

In Classic Shades 226 

That Gentle Man from Boston 227 

William Brown of Oregon 229 

Horace Greeley's Eide 230 

The Faithful Wife of Idaho 232 

Saratoga and the Psalmist 233 

A Turkey Hunt in Colorado 233 

The Capucin of Home 235 

Sunrise in Venice 236 

CoMO 237 

Burns , 238 

Byron 239 

Above the Clouds 241 

A California Christmas 241 

Thanksgiving, 1896 241 

"49" 242 

Battles ■ 242 

San Diego 242 

Pioneers to the Great Emerald Land 243 

Alaska 243 

"The Fourth " in Oregon 244 

An Answer 246 

yosemite 247 

Dead in the Sierras 247 

In Pere La Chaise 248 

KoME 249 

"poveris! poveris!" 249 

America to Americans 249 

Father Damien of Hawaii 250 



CONTENTS. XIX 



PAGE. 

At Our Golden Gate 250 

The Voice of the Dove 251 

Washington by the Delaware 251 

For those who Fail 252 

The Light of Christ's Face 252 

Columbus 253 

Cuba Libre 253 

Finale 254 

Juniata 256 

SONGS OF THE SOUL 257 

The Ideal and the Keal 257 

A Dove of St. Mark 266 

Sunset and Dawn in San Diego 273 

Sappho and Phaon 281 

ADIOS 307 

POKTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR 313 

APPENDIX 315 

Artesia of Tulare 315 

First Arbor Day in California 317 

Art and Heart on the Hights 319 

Notes on a Neglected Book 324 



SONGS OF THE SIERRAS. 



THE ARIZONIAN. 



Come to my sunland ! Come iviih me 
To the land I love ; where the sun and sea 
Are wed for ever ; where the palm and pine 
Are filVd with singers; where tree and vine 
Are voiced with prophets! O come, and you 
Shall sing a song with the seas thai swirl 
And kiss their hands to that cold white girl, 
To the maiden moon in her mantle of blue. 



" And I have said, and I say it ever, 
As the years go on and the world goes 

over, 
Twere better to be content and clever. 
In the tending of cattle and the tossing of 

clover. 
In the grazing of cattle and growing of 

grain. 
Than a strong man striving for fame or 

gain; 
Be even as kine in the red-tipped clover: 
For thej' lie down and their rests are rests. 
And the days are theirs, come sun, come 

rain, 
To rest, rise np, and repose again; 
While we wish and yearn, and do pray in 

vain, 
And hope to ride on the billows of bosoms. 
And hope to rest in the haven of breasts. 
Till the heart is sicken'd and the fair hope 

dead — 
Be even as clover with its crown of blos- 
soms. 
Even as blossoms ere the bloom is shed, 
Kiss'd by the kine and the brown sweet 

bee — 
For these have the sun, and moon, and air, 



And never a bit of the burthen of care: 
Yet with all of our caring what more have 
we? 

"I would court content like a lover 

lonely, 
I would woo her, win her, and wear her 

only. 
And would never go over the white sea 

wall 
For gold or glory or for aught at all." 

He said these things as he stood with 

the Squire 
By the river's rim in the field of clover, 
While the stream flow'd on and the clouds 

flew over. 
With the sun tangled in and the fringes 

afire. 

So the Squire lean'd with a kindly glory 
To humor his guest, and to hear his story; 
For his guest had gold, and he yet was 

clever. 
And mild of manner; and, what was more, 

he, 
In the morning's ramble had praised the 

kine. 



THE ARIZONIAN. 



The clover's reach and the meadows fine, 
Aud so made the Squire his frieud forever. 

His brow was brown'd by the sun and 

weather, 
And touch'd by the terrible hand of time; 
His rich black beard had a fringe of rime, 
As silk aud silver inwove together. 
There were hoops of gold all over his 

hands, 
And across his breast in chains aud bonds, 
Broad and massive as belts of leather. 

And the belts of gold were bright in the 

sun, 
But brighter than gold his black eyes 

shone 
From their sad face-setting so swarth and 

dun — 
Brighter than beautiful Santau stone. 
Brighter even than balls of fire, 
As he said, hot-faced, in the face of the 

Squire: — 

"The pines bow'd over, the stream bent 

under. 
The cabin was cover'd with thatches of 

palm 
Down in a canon so deep, the wonder 
Was what it could know in its clime but 

calm; 
Down in a canon so cleft asunder 
By sabre-stroke in the young world's 

prime, 
It look'd as if broken by bolts of thunder, 
And burst asunder and rent and riven 
By earthquakes driven that turbulent time 
The red cross lifted red hands to heaven. 

"And this in that laud where the sun 

goes down, 
And gold is gather'd by tide and by 

stream, 
And the maidens are brown as the cocoa 

brown. 
And life is a love and a love is a dream; 



"Where the winds come in from the far 

Cathay 
With odor of spices and balm and bay. 
And summer abideth with man alway. 
Nor comes in a tour with the stately 

June, 
And comes too late and returns too soon. 

"She stood in the shadows as the sun 

went down. 
Fretting her hair with her fingers brown, 
As tall as the silk-tipji'd tassel'd corn — 
Stood watching, dark brow'd, as I weighed 

the gold 
We had wash'd that day where the river 

roll'd; 
And her proud lip curl'd with a sun-clime 

scorn. 
As she ask'd, 'Is she better, or fairer than 

I ?— 
She, that blonde in the land beyond, 
Where the suu is hid and the seas are 

high— 
That you gather in gold as the years go 

by, 

And hoard and hide it away for her 
As the squiiTel burrows the black pine- 
burr? 

"Now the gold weigh'd well, but was 

lighter of weight 
Than we two had taken for days of late. 
So I was fretted, and brow a-frown, 
I said, half - angered, with head held 

down — 
' Well, yes, she is fairer; and I loved her 

first: 
And shall love her last, come worst to the 

worst.' 

"Her lips grew livid, and her eyes 
afire 
As I said this thing; and higher and 

higher 
The hot words ran, when the booming 
thunder 



THE ARIZONIAN. 



3 



Peal'^ in the crags aud the pine-tops 

under, 
While lip by the cliff in the murky skies 
It look'd as the clouds had caught the 

fire — 
The flash and fire of her wonderful 
eyes! 

"She turn'd from the door and down 
to the river, 

Aud mirror'd her face in the whimsical 
tide. 

Then threw back her hair as one throwing 
a quiver, 

As an Indian throws it back far from his 
side 

And free from his hands, swinging fast to 
the shoulder 

When rushing to battle; and, turning, 
she sigh'd 

And shook, aud shiver'd as aspens shiver. 

Then a great green snake slid into the 
river, 

Glistening green, and with eyes of fire; 

Quick, double-handed she seized a boulder, 

And cast it with all the fury of passion. 

As with lifted head it went curving across, 

Swift darting its tongue like a fierce de- 
sire, 

Curving and curving, lifting higher and 
higher. 

Bent and beautiful as a river moss; 

Then, smitten, it turn'd, bent, broken and 
doubled 

And lick'd, red-tongued, like a forked fire, 

Then sank and the troubled waters bub- 
bled 

And so swept on in the old swift fashion. 

"I lay in my hammock: the air was 

heavy 

And hot and threat'ning; the very heaven 

Was holding its breath; and bees in a bevy 

Hid under my thatch; and birds were 

driven 
In clouds to the rocks in a hiirried whirr 
As I peer'd down by the path for her. 



"She stood like a bronze bent over the 
river. 
The proud eyes fix'd,thepassion unspoken. 
Then the heavens broke like a great dyke 

broken ; 
And ere I fairly had time to give her 
A shout of warning, a rushing of wind 
Aud the rolling of clouds and a deafening 

din 
And a darkness that had been black to the 

blind 
Came down, as I shouted 'Come in! Come 

in! 
Come under the roof, come up from the 

river. 
As up from a grave — come now, or come 

never!' 
The tasserd tops of the pines were as 

weeds. 
The red-woods rock'd like to lake-side 

reeds. 
And the world seemed darken'd and 

drown'd forever, 
While I crouched low; as a beast that 

bleeds. 

"One time in the night as the black 
wind shifted. 
And a flash of lightning stretch'd over the 

stream, 
I seemed to see her with her brown hands 

lifted— 
Only seem'd to see as one sees in a dream — 
With her eyes wide wild and her pale lips 

press'd, 
And the blood from her brow, and the 

flood to her breast; 
When the flood caught her hair as flax in 

a wheel. 
And wheeling and whirling her round like 

a reel; 
Laugh'd loud her despair, then leapt like 

a steed. 
Holding tight to her hair, folding fast to 

her heel. 
Laughing fierce, leaping far as if spurr'd 

to its speed! 



THE ARIZONIAN, 



" Now mind, I tell you all this did but 
seem — 
Was seen as you see fearful scenes in a 

dream; 
For what the devil could the lighting show 
In a night like that, I should like to know ? 

" And then I slept, and sleeping I 
dream 'd 
Of great green serpents with tongues of 

fire, 
And of death by drowning, and of after 

death — 
Of the day of judgment, wherein it seem'd 
That she, the heathen, was bidden higher. 
Higher than I; that I clung to her side. 
And clinging struggled, and struggling 

cried. 
And crying, wakened all weak of my 

breath. 

"Long leaves of the sun lay over the 
floor. 
And a chipmunk chirp'd in the open door. 
While above on his crag the eagle scream'd, 
Scream'd as he never had scream'd before. 
I rush'd to the river: the flood had gone 
Like a thief, with only his tracks upon 
The weeds and grasses and warm wet sand, 
And I ran after with reaching hand. 
And call'd as I reach'd, and reach'd as I ran. 
And ran till I came to the canon's van. 
Where the waters lay in a bent lagoon, 
Hook'd and crook'd like the horned moon. 

' ' And there in the surge where the waters 

met, 
And the warm wave lifted, and the winds 

did fret 
The wave till it foam'd with rage on the 

land. 
She lay with the wave on the warm white 

sand; 
Her rich hair trailed with the trailing 

weeds, 
While her small brown hands lay prone or 

lifted 



As the waves sang strophes in the broken 

reeds. 
Or paused in pity, and in silence sifted 
Sands of gold, as upon her grave. 

"And as sure as you see yon browsing 
kine, 

And breathe the breath of your meadows 
fine. 

When I went to my waist in the warm 
white wave 

And stood all pale in the wave to my breast, 

And reach'd my hands in her rest and un- 
rest. 

Her hands were lifted and reach'd to mine. 

"Now mind, I tell you, I cried, 'Come 

in! 
Come into the house, come out from the 

hollow, 
Come out of the storm, come up from the 

river!' 
Aye, cried, and call'd in that desolate din, 
Though I did not rush out, and in plain 

words give her 
A wordy warning of the flood to follow, 
Word by word, and letter by letter; 
But she knew it as well as I, and better; 
For once in the desert of New Mexico 
When we two sought frantically far and 

wide 
For the famous spot where Apaches shot 
With bullets of gold their bufi'alo. 
And she stood faithful to death at my 

side, 
I threw me down in the hard hot sand 
Utterly famish'd, and ready to die; 
Then a speck arose in the red-hot sky — 
A speck no larger than a lady's hand — 
While she at my side beut tenderly over, 
Shielding my face from the sun as a 

cover. 
And wetting my face, as she watch'd by 

my side. 
From a skin she had borne till the high 

noontide. 



THE ARIZONIAN. 



(I had emptied miue in the heat of the 

moruiug) 
"When the thunder mutter'd far over the 

plain 
Like a monster bound or a beast in pain: 
She sprang the instant, and gave the 

warning, 
With her brown hand pointed to the 

burning skies. 
For I was too weak unto death to rise. 
But she knew the i^eril, and her iron will, 
With a heart as true as the great North 

Star, 
Did bear me up to the palm-tipp'd hill, 
Where the fiercest beasts in a brother- 
hood. 
Beasts that had fled from the plain and 

far. 
In perfectest peace expectant stood. 
With their heads held high, and their 

limbs a-quiver. 
Then ere she barely had time to breathe 
The boiling waters began to seethe 
From hill to hill in a booming river, 
Beating and breaking from hill to hill — 
Even while yet the sun shot fire. 
Without the shield of a cloud above — 
Filling the canon as you would fill 
A wine-cup, drinking in swift desire. 
With the brim new-kiss'd by the lii^s you 

love! 

** So you see she knew — knew perfectly 

well, 
As well as I could shout and tell, 
That the mountain would send a flood to 

the plain, 
Sweejiing the gorge like a hurricane. 
When the fire flash'd and the thunder fell. 

"Therefore it is wrong, and I say 

therefore 
Unfaii*, that a mystical, brown-wing'd 

moth 
Or midnight bat should forevermore 
Fan past my face with its wings of air, 



And follow me uji, down, everywhere, 
Flit past, pursue me, or fly before, 
Dimly limning in each fair place 
The full fixed eyes and the sad, brown face. 
So forty times worse than if it were wroth! 

"I gather'd the gold I had hid in the 

earth, 

Hid over the door and hid under the hearth : 

Hoarded and hid, as the world went over. 

For the love of a blonde by a sun-brown 'd 

lover. 
And I said to myself, as I set my face 
To the East and afar from the desolate 

place, 
'She has braided her tresses, and through 

her tears 
Look'd away to the West for years, the years 
That I have wrought where the sun tans 

brown; 
She has waked by night, she has watch'd 

by day. 
She has wept and wonder'd at my delay. 
Alone and in tears, wit h her head held down. 
Where the ships sail out and the seas 

swirl in, 
Forgetting to knit and refusing to spin. 

"She shall lift her head, she shall see 
her lover, 
She shall hear his voice like a sea that 

rushes, 
She shall hold his gold in her hands of 

snow, 
And down on his breast she shall hide her 

blushes. 
And never a care shall her true heart know. 
While the clods are below, or the clouds 

are above her. 

"On the fringe of the night she stood 
with her jiitcher 
At the old town fountain: and oh! pass- 
ing fair. 
'I am riper now,' I said, 'but am richer,' 
And I lifted my hand to my beard and 
hair; 



THE ARIZONIAN. 



•I am biirnt by the sun, I am browu'd by 

the sea; 
I am white of my beard, and am bald, may 

be; 
Yet for all snch things what can her heart 

care ? ' 
Then she moved; and I said, 'How mar- 
velous fair!' 
She look'd to the West, with her arm arch'd 

over; 
'Looking for me, her siin-brown'd lover,' 
I said to myself, and my heart grew bold. 
And I stepp'd me nearer to her presence 

there. 
As approaching a friend; for 'twas here of 

old 
Our troths were plighted and the tale was 

told. 

" How young she was and how fair she 
was! 
How tall as a palm, and how pearly fair, 
As the night came down on her glorious 

hair! 
Then the night grew deep and my eyes 

grew dim, 
And a sad-faced figure began to swim 
And float by my face, flit past, then pause, 
With her hands held xip and her head held 

down, 
Yet face to my face; and that face was 

brown! 

"Now why did she come and confront 
me there. 

With the flood to her face and the moist 
in her hair. 

And a mystical stare in her marvelous eyes ? 

I had call'd to her twice, 'Come in! come 
in! 

Come out of the storm to the calm with- 
in!' 

Now, that is the reason I do make complain 

That for ever and ever her face should 
rise, 

Facing face to face with her great sad 
eyes. 



"I said then to myself, and I say it 
again, 
Gainsay it you, gainsay it who will, 
I shall say it over and over still. 
And will say it ever; for I know it true. 
That I did all that a man could do 
(Some men's good doings are done in vain) 
To save that passionate child of the sun, 
With her love as deep as the doubled main, 
And as strong and fierce as a troubled sea — 
That beautiful bronze with its soul of fire, 
lis tropical love and its kingly ire — 
That child as tix'd as a pyramid, 
As tall as a ti;le and pure as a nun — 
And all there is of it, the all I did, 
As often happens was done in vain. 
So there is no bit of her blood on me. 

' She is marvelous young and is wonder- 
ful fair, ' 

I said again, and my heart grew bold, 

And beat and beat a charge for my feet. 

'Time that defaces us, j^laces, and replaces 
us. 

And trenches our faces in furrows for 
tears. 

Has traced here nothing in all these years. 

'Tis the hair of gold that I vex'd of old. 

The marvelous flowing, gold-flower of hail". 

And the peaceful eyes in their sweet sur- 
prise 

That I have kiss"d till the head swam 
round. 

And the delicate curve of the dimpled 
chin. 

And the pouting lips and the pearls with- 
in 

Are the same, the same, but so young, so 
fair!' 

My heart leapt out and back at a bound. 

As a child that starts, then stops, then 
lingers. 

'How wonderful young!' I lifted my fin- 
gers 

And fell to counting the round years down 

That I had dwelt where the sun tans brown. 



THE ARIZONIAN. 



"Four full bauds, and a finger over! 
'She does not know me, her truant lover,' 
I said to myself, for her brow was a-frown 
As I stepp"d still nearer, with my head 

held down, 
All abash'd and in blushes my brown face 

over; 
' She does not know me, her long lost lover. 
For my beard's so long and my skin's so 

brown 
That I well might pass myself for another.' 
So I lifted my voice and I spake aloud: 
'Annette, my darling! Annette Macleod! ' 
She started, she stopped, she turn'd, 

amazed. 
She stood all wonder, her eyes wild-wide. 
Then turn'd in terror down the dusk way- 
side. 
And cried as she fled, 'The man he is 

crazed. 
And he calls the maiden name of my 

mother!' 

"Let the world turn over, and over, and 

over. 
And toss and tumble like beasts in pain. 
Crack, quake, and tremble, and turn fiall 

over 
And die, and never rise up again; 
Let her dash her peaks through the jDurple 

cover. 
Let her plash her seas in the face of the 

sun — 
I have no one to love me now, not one, 
In a world as full as a world can hold; 
So I will get gold as I erst have done, 
I will gather a coffin top-full of gold. 
To take to the door of Death, to buy — 
Buy what, when I double my hands and 

die? 

"Go down, go down to your fields of 
clover. 
Go down with your kiue to the pastures 

fine, 
And give no thought, or care, or labor 
For maid or man, good name or neighbor; 



For I gave all as the years went over — 
Gave all my youth, my years and labor, 
And a heart as warm as the world is cold, 
For a beautiful, bright, and delusive lie: 
Gave youth, gave years, gave love for gold; 
Giving and getting, yet what have I? 

"The red ripe stars hang low overhead. 
Let the good and the light of soul reach up. 
Pluck gold as plucking a butter-cup: 
But I am as lead, and my hands are red. 

"So the sun climbs up, and on, and 
over. 
And the days go out and the tides come in. 
And the pale moon rubs on her purple 

cover 
Till worn as thin and as bright as tin; 
But the ways are dark and the days are 

dreary. 
And the dreams of youth are but dust in 

age, 
And the heart grows harden'd and the 

hands grow weary, 
Holding them up for their heritage. 

"For we promise so great and we gain 
so little; 
For we promise so great of glory and gold. 
And we gain so little that the hands grow 

cold. 
And the strained heart-strings wear bare 

and brittle, 
And for gold and glory we but gain instead 
A fond heart sicken'd and a fair hope dead. 

"So I have said, and I say it over. 
And can prove it over and over again. 
That the four-footed beasts in the red- 
crown 'd clover, 
The pied and horned beasts on the plain 
That lie down, rise up, and repose again. 
And do never take care or toil or spin, 
Nor buy, nor build, nor gather in gold, 
As the days go out and the tides come in. 
Are better than we by a thousand-fold; 
For what is it all, in the words of fire, 
But a vexing of soul and a vain desire?" 



THE ARIZONIAN. 



I had left school in Oregon In the early fifties ; ran away, it is told. The truth is new gold mines had been 
found a few hundred miles to the south, near the California line, and, as we were always poor, my elder brother 
and I thought it a good thing that I should rush in and locate a mining claun. We could not get heart to tell our 
parents and I left at night, taking my school books. As was so often the case, the rich mines were " a little far- 
ther on," and I could not turn back; for an Indian war was impending between where I was and home, so I kept 
on. Once in sight of Mount Shasta I must see more, and finally found an old mountaineer who had often camped 
by us in Oregon with his pack animals and companioned with Papa. He had been with Fremont, was a graduate 
of Heidelberg, and gladly helped me along with my Latin. His trade was the buying of wild horses by the herd 
from the Mexicans far south and driving them up to his Soda Spring ranch and rich grasses at the base of Mount 
Shasta, then on to Oregon tUl tamed, then returning to California with a pack train of Oregon produce. By attach- 
ing myself to him the way seemed clear to get back home, in the course of time. 

He finally gave me a share in his wild ranch and ventures, and I made two of these long, glorious trips of 
mountains, deserts, snow, color; gorgeousness and gorgeousness. My position was rather that of cook and servant 
than companion and partner, for he had some rough men with him and left things to them. But I could live on 
horseback by day and read by our camp-fire at night, and that was enough. 

Mountain Jo was a good man at heart, but a sad drunkard and a hopelessly helpless business man. Besides, 
the Indians were continually provoked to war by his rough men as weU as by heartless gold hunters, and we could 
do little but fight. He lost an eye and when I got back home after years, I had little to show on my return except 
some ugly and still painful wounds. But I had not been idle, and with help from Papa and some indulgence soon 
took my place in my class and wrote a part of this poem crudely, about that time. 

The sudden storm, cloud-burst and flood here described is as I saw it in Arizona; the comely Indian girl I 
saw perish as described, near Mount Shasta. I located the final scene and the hero in Scotland because I first set 
foot there in Europe, and because our family was of Scotland. Mountain Jo used to carry in his pocket a rough 
gold bullet which he said he cut from the neck of his horse after a battle with Apaches. The whole story was not 
written down till in London. I liked it best, and so put it first in "The Songs of the Sierras." I tell all this to 
the yoimg writer for a purpose. 

In Rome I once watched a great sculptor fashion a noble statue, and I noticed that he had many models. 
From one he shaped the arms, from another the legs, from another the pose of the head. 

So, my coming poet of the Sierras and great sea, you may gather your bouquet of song from many hillsides 
but do not entirely imagine all your flowers. For however beautiful they may seem to you, they will not seen" 
quite real to others. 

This book, in the following lines, was dedicated To Maud: 

Because the skies were blue, because 

The sun in fringes of the sea 

Was tangled, and delightfully 

Kept dancing on as in a waltz. 

And tropic trees bowed to the seas 

And bloomed and bore years through and through. 

And birds in blended gold and blue 

Were thick and sweet as swarming bees, 

And sang as if in Paradise 

And all that Paradise was spring — 

Did I too sing with lifted eyes, 

Because I could not choose but sing. 

With garments full of sea winds blown 
From isles beyond of spice and balm 
Beside the sea, beneath her palm. 
She waits, as true as chiseled stone. 
My childhood's child, my June in May, 
So wiser than thy father is. 
These lines, these leaves, and all of this 
Are thine— a loose, uncouth bouquet — 
So, wait and watch for sail or sign, 
A ship shall mount the hollow seas 
Blown to thy place of blossomed trees. 
And birds, and song, and summer-shine. 

I throw a kiss across the sea, 
I drink the winds as drinking wine. 
And dream they all are blown from thee — 
I catch the whispered kiss of thine. 
Shall I return with lifted face. 
Or head held down as in disgrace 
To hold thy two brown hands in mine? 
England, 187L 



WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA. 



WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA. 

That man loho Ures for self alone. 
Lives for the meanest mortal known. 



He was a brick: let this be said 

Above my brave disliouor'd dead. 

I ask no more, this is not much, 

Yet I disdain a colder touch 

To memory as dear as his; 

For he was true as God's north star, 

And brave as Yuba's grizzlies are. 

Yet gentle as a panther is, 

Mouthing her young in her first fierce kiss. 

A dash of sadness in his air, 
Born, may be, of his over care, 
And may be, born of a despair 
lu early love — I never knew; 
I questioned not, as many do. 
Of things as sacred as this is; 
I only knew that he to me 
Was all a father, friend, could be; 
I sought to know no more than this 
Of history of him or his. 

A piercing eye, a princely air, 
A presence like a chevalier, 
Half angel and half Lucifer; 
Sombrero black, with ijlume of snow 
That swept his long silk locks below; 
A red serape with bars of gold, 
All heedless falling, fold on fold; 
A sash of silk, where flashing swung 
A sword as swift as serpent's tongue. 
In sheath of silver chased in gold; 
And Spanish spurs with bells of steel 
That dash'd and dangled at the heel; 
A face of blended pride and pain. 
Of mingled pleading and disdain, 
With shades of glory and of grief — 
The famous filibuster chief 
Stood front his men amid the trees 
That top the fierce Cordilleras, 
With bent arm arch'd above his brow; — 
Stood still — he stands, a picture, now — 
Long gazing down the sunset seas. 



What strange, strong, bearded men were 

these 
He led above the tropic seas ! 
Men sometimes of uncommon birth. 
Men rich in histories untold, 
Who boasted not, though more than bold. 
Blown from the four parts of the earth. 

Men mighty-thew'd as Samson was, 
That had been kings in any cause, 
A remnant of the races past; 
Dark-brow'd as if in iron cast. 
Broad-breasted as twin gates of brass, — 
Men strangely brave and fiercely true, 
Who dared the West when giants were, 
Who err'd, yet bravely dared to err, 
A remnant of that early few 
Who held no crime or curse or vice 
As dark as that of cowardice; 
With blendings of the worst and best 
Of faults and virtues that have blest 
Or cursed or thrill'd the human breast. 

They rode, a troop of bearded men, 
Kode two and two out from the town. 
And some were blonde and some were 

brown. 
And all as brave as Sioux; but when 
From San Bennetto south the line 
That bound them in the laws of man 
Was pass'd, and peace stood mute be- 
hind 
And stream'd a banner to the wind 
The world knew not, there was a sign 
Of awe, of silence, rear and van. 

Men thought who never thought before; 
I heard the clang and clash of steel 
From sword at hand or spur at heel 
And iron feet, but nothing more. 
Some thought of Texas, some of Maine, 
But one of rugged Tennessee, — 



lO 



WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA. 



And oue of Avou thoi;ght, and one 
Thought of an isle beneath the sun, 
And one of Wabash, one of Spain, 
And one turned sadly to the Spree, 

Defeat meant something more than 
death; 
The world was ready, keen to smite, 
As siern and stiil beneath its ban 
With iron will and bated breath, 
Their hands against their fellow-man, 
They rode — each man an Ishmaelite. 
But when we topped the hills of pine, 
These men dismounted, doflFd their cares, 
Talk'd loud and laugh'd old love affairs, 
And on the grass took meat and wine, 
And never gave a thought again 
To laud or life that lay behind. 
Or love, or care of any kind 
Beyond the present cross or pain. 

And I, a waif of stormy seas, 
A child among such men as these. 
Was blown along this savage surf 
And rested with them on the turf, 
And took delight below the trees. 
I did not qiiestion, did not care 
To know the right or wrong. I saw 
That savage freedom had a spell. 
And loved it more than I can tell, 
And snapp'd my fingers at the law. 
I bear my burden of the shame, — 
I shun it not, and naiight forget, 
However much I may regret: 
I claim some candor to my name, 
And courage cannot change or die, — 
Did they deserve to die? they died! 
Let justice then be satisfied. 
And as for me, why, what am I ? 

The standing side by side till death. 
The dying for some wounded friend. 
The faith that failed not to the end, 
The strong endurance till the breath 
And body took their ways apart, 
I only know. I keep my trust. 
Their vices! earth has them by heart. 
Their virtues! they are with their di;st. 



How we descended troop on troop, 
As wide- winged eagles downward swoop! 
How wound we through the fragrant wood. 
With all its broad boughs hung in green, 
With sweeping mosses trail'd between! 
How waked the spotted beasts of prey. 
Deep sleeping from the face of day, 
And dashed them like a troubled flood 
Down some defile and denser wood! 

And snakes, long, lithe and beautiful 
As green and graceful bough'd bamboo, 
Did twist and twine them through and 

through 
The boughs that hung red-fruited full. 
One, monster-sized, above me hung, 
Close eyed me with his bright pink eyes, 
Then raised his folds, and sway'd and 

swung, 
And lick'd like lightning his red tongi;e. 
Then oped his wide mouth with surprise; 
He writhed and curved and raised and 

lower 'd 
His folds like liftings of the tide, 
Then sank so low I touch'd his side, 
As I rode by, with my bright sword. 

The trees shook hands high overhead, 
And bow'd and intertwined across 
The narrow way, while leaves and moss 
And luscious fruit, gold-hued and red, 
Through all the canopy of green. 
Let not one shaft shoot between. 

Birds hung and swung, green-robed and 
red. 
Or droop'd in curved lines dreamily, 
Rainbows reversed, from tree to tree, 
Or sang low hanging overhead — 
Sang low, as if they sang and slept, 
Sang faint like some far waterfall, 
And took no note of us at all, 
Though nuts that in the way were spread 
Did crush and crackle where we stept. 

Wild lilies, tall as maidens are. 
As sweet of breath, as pearly fair 
As fair as faith, as pure as truth. 



WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA. 



II 



Fell thick before our every tread, 
In fragrant sacrifice of ruth. 
The ripen 'd fruit a fragrance shed 
And hung in hand-reach overhead, 
In nest of blossoms on the shoot, 
The verj' shoot that bore the fruit. 

How ran lithe monkeys through the 

leaves! 
How rush'd they through, brown clad and 

blue, 
Like shuttles hiirried through and through 
The threads a hasty weaver weaves! 

How quick they cast us fruits of gold, 
Then loosen'd hand and all foothold, 
And hung limp, limber, as if dead, 
Hung low and listless overhead; 
And all the time with half-oped eyes 
Bent full on us in mute surprise — 
Look'd wisely, too, as wise hens do 
That watch you with the head askew. 

The long day through from blossom'd 
trees 
There came the sweet song of sweet bees. 
With chorus-tones of cockatoo 
That slid his beak along the bough. 
And walk'd and talk'd and hung and 

swung. 
In crown of gold and coat of blue, 
The wisest fool that ever sung, 
Or wore a crown, or held a tongue. 

Oh! when we broke the somber wood 
And pierced at last the sunny plain. 
How wild and still with wonder stood 
The proud mustangs with banner'd mane. 
And necks that never knew a rein. 
And nostrils lifted high, and blown, 
Fierce breathing as a hurricane: 
Yet by their leader held the while 
In solid coh;mn, sqi;are and file 
And ranks more martial than our own! 

Some one above the common kind. 
Some one to look to, lean upon, 
I think is much a woman's mind; 
But it was mine, and I had drawn 



A rein beside the chief while we 
Kode through the forest leisurely; 
When he grew kind and question'd me 
Of kindred, home, and home affair. 
Of how I came to wander there. 
And had my father herds and land 
And men in hundreds at command? 
At which I silent shook my head. 
Then, timid, met his eyes and said: 
" Not so. Where sunny foothills run 
Down to the North Pacific sea, 
And Willamette meets the sun 
In many angles, patiently 
My father tends his flocks of snow, 
And turns alone the mellow sod 
And sows some fields not over broad, 
And mourns my long delay in vain. 
Nor bids one serve-man come or go; 
While mother from her wheel or churn. 
And may be from the milking shed, 
Oft lifts an humble, weary head 
To watch and wish her boy's return 
Across the camas' blossom'd plain." 

He held his bent head very low, 
A siiddeu sadness in his air; 
Theu turn'd and touch'd my yellow hair 
And tossed the long locks in his hand, 
Toy'd with them, smiled, and let them go, 
Then thrumm'd about his saddle bow 
As thought ran swift across his face; 
Then turning sudden from his place. 
He gave some short and quick command. 
They brought the best steed of the band, 
They swung a rifle at my side, 
He bade me mount and by him ride. 
And from that hour to the end 
I never felt the need of friend. 

Far in the wildest quinine wood 
We found a city old — so old. 
Its very walls were turned to mould. 
And stately trees upon them stood. 
No history has mention'd it. 
No map has given it a place; 
The last dim trace of tribe and race — 
The world's forgetfulness is fit. 



12 



WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA. 



It held one structure graud and moss'd, 
Mighty as any castle sung, 
And old when oldest Ind was young, 
With threshold Christian never cross'd; 
A temple builded to the sun, 
Along whose somber altar-stone 
Brown, bleeding virgins had been strown 
Like leaves, when leaves are crisp and dun, 
lu ages ere the Sphinx was born, 
Or Babylon had birth or morn. 
My chief led up the marble step — 
He ever led, through that wild land — 
When down the stones, with double hand 
To his machete, a Sun priest leapt, 
Hot bent to barter life for life. 
The chieftain drave his bowie knife. 
Full through his thick and broad breast- 
bone. 
And broke the point against the stone, 
The dark stone of the temple wall. 
I saw him loose his hold and fall 
Full length with head hung down the step; 
I saw run down a ruddy flood 
Of smoking, pulsing human blood. 
Then from the wall a woman crept 
And kiss'd the gory hands and face. 
And smote herself. Then one by one 
Some dark priests crept and did the same, 
Then bore the dead man from the place. 
Down darken'd aisles the brown priests 

came, 
So picture-like, with sandal'd feet 
And long, gray, dismal, grass-wove gowns, 
So like the pictures of old time, 
And stood all still and dark of frowns. 
At blood upon the stone and street. 
So we laid ready hand to sword 
And boldly spoke some bitter word; 
But they were stubborn still, and stood 
Fierce frowning as a winter wood. 
And mutt'ring something of the crime 
Of blood upon a temple stone, 
As if the first that it had known. 

We strode on through each massive door 
With clash of steel at heel, and with 
Some swords all red and ready drawn. 



I traced the sharp edge of my sword 
Along both marble wall and floor 
For crack or crevice; there was none. 
From one vast mount of marble stone 
The mighty temple had been cored 
By nut-brown children of the sun. 
When stars were newly bright and blithe 
Of song along the rim of dawn, 
A mighty marble monolith! 



Through marches through the mazy wood 
And may be through too much of blood, 
At last we came down to the seas. 
A city stood, white wall'd, and brown 
With age, in nest of orange trees; 
And this we won and many a town 
And rancho reaching up and down. 
Then rested in the red-hot days 
Beneath the blossom'd orange trees, 
Made drowsy with the drum of bees, 
And drank in peace the south-sea breeze. 
Made sweet with sweeping boughs of bays, 

Well! there were maidens, shy at first, 
And then, ere long, not over shy, 
Yet pure of soul and proudly chare. 
No love on earth has such an eye! 
No land there is, is bless'd or curs'd 
With such a limb or grace of face. 
Or gracious form, or genial air! 
In all the bleak North-land not one 
Hath been so warm of soul to me 
As coldest soul by that warm sea. 
Beneath the bright hot centred sun. 

No lands where northern ices are 
Approach, or ever dare compare 
With warm loves born beneath the sun — 
The one the cold white steady star, 
The lifted shifting sun the one. 
I grant you fond, I grant you fair, 
I grant you honor trust and truth. 
And years as beautiful as youth. 
And many years beneath the sun, 



WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA. 



13 



And faith as fix'd as any star; 

But all the North-land hath not one 

So warm of soul as sun-maids are. 

I was but in my boyhood then, — 
I count my fingers over, so. 
And find it years and years ago, 
And I am scarcely yet of men. 
But I was tall and lithe and fair. 
With rippled tide of yellow hair. 
And prone to mellowness of heart. 
While she was tawny-red like wine, 
With black hair boundless as the night. 
As for the rest I knew my part. 
At least was apt, and willing quite 
To learn, to listen, and incline 
To teacher warm and wise as mine. 

O bright, bronzed maidens of the Sun! 
So fairer far to look upon 
Than curtains of the Solomon, 
Or Kedar's tents, or any one. 
Or any thing beneath the Sun! 
What follow'd then ? What has been done ? 
And said, and writ, and read, and sung? 
What will be writ and read again. 
While love is life, and life remain? — 
While maids will heed, and men have 
tongue? 

What follow'd then? But let that pass. 
I hold one picture in my heart. 
Hung curtain'd, and not any part 
Of all its dark tint ever has 
Been look'd upon by any one 
Beneath the broad all-seeing sun. 

Love well who will, love wise who can, 
But love, be loved, for God is love; 
Love pure, as cherubim above; 
Love maids, and hate not any man. 
Sit as sat we by orange tree. 
Beneath the broad bough and grape-vine 
Top-tangled in the tropic shine. 
Close face to face, close to the sea, 
And full of the red-centred sun. 
With grand sea-songs upon the soul, 



EoU'd melody on melody, 

As echoes of deep organ's roll, 

And love, nor question any one. 

If God is love, is love not God? 
As high priests say, let prophets sing, 
Without reproach or reckoning; 
This much I say, knees knit to sod. 
And low voice lifted, questioning. 

Let hearts be pure and strong and, true, 
Let lips be luscious and blood-red. 
Let earth in gold be garmented 
And tented in her tent of blue. 
Let goodly rivers glide between 
Their leaning willow walls of green, 
Let all things be fill'd of the sun. 
And full of warm winds of the sea, 
And I beneath my vine and tree 
Take rest, nor war with any one; 
Then I will thank God with full cause. 
Say this is well, is as it was. 

Let lips be red, for God has said 
Love is as one gold-garmented. 
And made them so for such a time. 
Therefore let li^js be red, therefore 
Let love be ripe in ruddy prime. 
Let hope beat high, let hearts be true, 
And you be wise thereat, and you 
Drink deep and ask not any more. 

Let red lips lift, proud curl'd to kiss. 
And round limbs lean and raise and reach 
In love too passionate for speech. 

Too full of blessedness and bliss 
For anything but this and this; 
Let luscious lips lean hot to kiss 
And swoon in love, while all the air 
Is redolent with balm of trees. 
And mellow with the song of bees. 
While birds sit singing everywheie— 
And you will have not any more 
Than I in boyhood, by that shore 
Of olives, had iu years of yore. 

Let the unclean think things unclean; 
I swear tip-toed, with lifted hands. 



H 



WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA. 



That we were pure as sea-wash'd sands, 
That not one coarse thought came between; 
Believe or disbelieve who will, 
Unto the pure all things are pure; 
As for the rest, I can endure 
Alike your good will or their ill. 

Aye! she was rich in blood and gold — 
More rich in love, grown over-bold 
From its own consciousness of strength. 
How warm! Oh, not for any cause 
Could I declare how warm she was, 
In her brown beauty and hair's length. 
We loved in the sufficient sun, 
We lived in elements of fire. 
For love is fire iu fierce desire; 
Yet lived as pure as priest and nun. 

We lay slow rocking by the bay 
In slim canoe beneath the crags 
Thick-topp'd with palm, like sweeping 

flags 
Between us and the burning day. 
The alligator's head lay low 
Or lifted from his rich rank fern, 
And watch'd us and the tide by turn. 
As we slow cradled to and fro. 

And slow we cradled on till night. 
And told the old tale, overtold. 
As misers in recounting gold 
Each time to take a new delight. 
With her pure passion-given grace 
She drew her warm self close to me; 
And her two brown hands on my knee, 
And her two black eyes in my face. 
She then grew sad and guess'd at ill. 
And in the future seem'd to see 
With woman's ken of prophecy; 
Yet proffer'd her devotion still. 
And plaintive so she gave a sign, 
A token cut of virgin gold. 
That all her tribe should ever hold 
Its wearer as some one divine. 
Nor touch him with a hostile hand. 
And I in turn gave her a blade, 
A dagger, worn as well by maid 



As man, in that half lawless land. 

It had a massive silver hilt. 

It had a keen and cunning blade, 

A gift by chief and comrades made 

For reckless blood at Rivas spilt. 

" Show this, " said I, " too well 'tis known. 

And worth a hundred lifted spears, 

Should ill beset your sunny years; 

There is not one in Walker's band, 

But at the sight of this alone. 

Will reach a brave and ready hand, 

And make your right, or wrong, his own." 

IV, 

Love while 'tis day; night cometh soon, 
Wherein no man or maiden may; 
Love in the strong young prime of day; 
Drink drunk with love in ripe red noon, 
Red noon of love and life and sun; 
Walk in love's light as in sunshine. 
Drink in that sun as drinking wine. 
Drink swift, nor question any one; 
For fortunes change, as man or moon. 
And wane like warm full days of June. 

Oh Love, so fair of promises, 
Bend here thy brow, blow here thy kiss, 
Bend here thy bow above the storm 
But once, if only this once more. 
Comes there no patient Christ to save, 
Touch and re-animate thy form 
Long three days dead and in the grave: 
Spread here thy silken net of jet; 
Since fortunes change, turn and forget, 
Since man must fall for some sharp sin, 
Be thou the pit that I fall in; 
I seek no safer fall than this. 
Since man must die for some dark sin, 
Blind leading blind, let come to this. 
And my death crime be one deep kiss. 

v, 

111 comes disguised in many forms: 
Fair winds are but a prophecy 
Of foulest winds full soon to be — 
The brighter these, the blacker they; 
The clearest night has darkest day. 



WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA. 



15 



And brightest days bring blackest storms. 
There came reverses to our arms; 
I saw the signal-light's alarms 
All night red-crescenting the bay. 
The foe poured down a flood next day 
As strong as tides when tides are high, 
And drove us bleeding to the sea, 
In such wild haste of flight that we 
Had hardly time to arm and fly. 

Blown from the shore, borne far at sea, 
I lifted my two hands on high 
With wild soul plashing to the sky, 
And cried, " O more than crowns to me. 
Farewell at last to love and thee!" 
I walked the deck, I kiss'd my hand 
Back to the far and fading shore, 
And bent a knee as to implore, 
Until the last dark head of lahd 
Slid down behind the dimpled sea. 

At last I sank in troubled sleep, 
A very child, rock'd by the deep, 
Sad questioning the fate of her 
Before the savage conqueror. 

The loss of comrades, power, place, 
A city wall'd, cool shaded waj's, 
Cost me no care at all; somehow 
I only saw her sad brown face. 
And — I was younger then than now. 

Red flashed the sun across the deck. 
Slow flapped the idle sails, and slow 
The black ship cradled to and fro. 
Afar my city lay, a speck 
Of white against a line of blue; 
Around, half lounging on the deck. 
Some comrades chatted two by two. 
I held a new-fiU'd glass of wine. 
And with the Mate talk'd as in play 
Of fierce events of yesterday, 
To coax his light life into mine. 

He jerked the wheel, as slow he said. 
Low laughing with averted head. 
And so, half sad: " You bet they'll fight; 
They follow'd in canim, canoe, 
A perfect fleet, that on the blue 



Lay dancing till the mid of night. 
Would you believe! one little cuss" — 
(He turned his stout head slow sidewise. 
And 'neath his hat-rim took the skies) — 
" In petticoats did follow us 
The livelong night, and at the dawn 
Her boat lay rocking in the lee. 
Scarce one short pistol-shot from me." 
This said the mate, half mournfully. 
Then peck'd at us; for he had drawn, 
By bright light heart and homely wit, 
A knot of men around the wheel. 
Which he stood whirling like a reel, 
For the still ship reck'd not of it. 

" And Where's she now? " one careless 
said, 
With eyes slow lifting to the brine. 
Swift swept the instant far by mine; 
The bronzed mate listed, shook his head, 
Spirted a stream of ambier wide 
Across and over the ship side, 
Jerk'd at the wheel, and slow replied: 

" She had a dagger in her hand. 
She rose, she raised it, tried to stand. 
But fell, and so upset herself; 
Yet still the poor brown savage elf, 
Each time the long light wave would toss 
And lift her form from out the sea. 
Would shake a sharj) bright blade at me. 
With rich hilt chased a cunning cross. 
At last she sank, but still the same 
She shook her dagger in the air. 
As if to still defy and dare. 
And sinking seem'd to call your name." 

I let my wine glass crashing fall, 
I rush'd across the deck, and all 
The sea I swept and swept again, 
With lifted hand, with eye and glass, 
But all was idle and in vain. 
I saw a red-bill'd sea-gull pass, 
A petrel sweeping round and round, 
I heard the far white sea-surf sound. 
But no sign coiild I hear or see ^ 

Of one so more than seas to me. 



i6 



WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA. 



I cursed the ship, the shore, the sea, 
The brave brown mate, the bearded men; 
I had a fever then, and then 
Ship, shore and sea were one to me; 
And weeks we on the dead waves lay, 
And I more truly dead than they. 
At last some rested on an isle; 
The few strong-breasted, with a smile. 
Returning to the hostile shore. 
Scarce counting of the pain or cost, 
Scarce recking if they won or lost; 
They sought but action, ask'd no more; 
They counted life but as a game, 
With full per cent, against them, and 
Staked all upon a single hand. 
And lost or won, content the same. 

I never saw my chief again, 
I never sought again the shore, 
Or saw my white- walled city more. 
I could not bear the more than pain 
At sight of blossom'd orange trees, 
Or blended song of birds and bees. 
The sweeping shadows of the palm 
Or spicy breath of bay and balm. 
And, striving to forget the while, 
I wandered through a dreary isle, 
Here black with juniper, and there 
Made white with goats in shaggy coats, 
The only things that anywhere 
We found with life in all the land. 
Save birds that ran long-bill'd and brown. 
Long legg'd and still as shadows are. 
Like dancing shadows up and down 
The sea-rim on the swelt'ring sand. 

The warm sea laid his dimpled face. 
With all his white locks smoothed in place, 
As if asleep against the land; 
Great turtles slept upon his breast, 
As thick as eggs in any nest; 
I could have touch'd them with my hand. 



I would some things were dead and hid. 
Well dead and buried deep as hell. 
With recollection dead as well, 



And resurrection God forbid. 
They irk me with their weary spell 
Of fascination, eye to eye. 
And hot mesmeric serpent hiss, 
Through all the dull eternal days. 
Let them turn by, go on their ways, 
Let them depart or let me die; 
For life is but a beggar's lie. 
And as for death, I grin at it; 
I do not care one whifif or whit 
Whether it be or that or this. 

I give my hand; the world is wide; 
Then farewell memories of yore, 
Between us let strife be no more; 
Turn as you choose to either side; 
Say, Fare-you-well, shake hands and say — 
Speak fair, and say with stately grace, 
Hand clutching hand, face bent to face — 
Farewell forever and a day. 

O passion-toss'd and piteous past. 
Part now, part well, part wide apart. 
As ever ships on ocean slid 
Down, down the sea, hull, sail, and mast; 
And in the album of my heart 
Let hide the pictures of your face. 
With other pictiares in their place. 
Slid over like a coffin's lid. 

VII. 

The days and grass grow long together; 
They now fell short and crisp again. 
And all the fair face of the main 
Grew dark and wrinkled as the weather. 
Through all the summer sun's decline 
Fell news of triumphs and defeats. 
Of hard advances, hot retreats — 
Then days and days and not a line. 

At last one night they came. I knew 
Ere yet the boat had touched the land 
That all was lost; they were so few 
I near could count them on one hand; 
But he, the leader, led no more. 
The proud chief still disdain'd to fly, 
But like one wreck'd, clung to the shore. 
And struggled on, and struggling fell 



WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA. 



17 



From power to a prison-cell, 
And only left that cell to die. 

My recollection, like a ghost, 
Goes from this sea to that sea-side. 
Goes and returns as turns the tide, 
Then turns again unto the coast. 
I know not which I mourn the most, 
My chief or my unwedded wife. 
The one was as the lordly sun, 
To joy in, bask in, and admire; 
The peaceful moon was as the one, 
To love, to look to, and desire; 
And both a part of my young life. 

VIII. 

Years after, shelter'd from the sun 

Beneath a Sacramento bay, 

A black Muchacho by me lay 

Along the long grass crisp and dun, 

His brown mule browsing by his side, 

And told with all a Peon's pride 

How he once fought; how long and well, 

Broad breast to breast, red hand to hand, 

Against a foe for his fair land. 

And how the fierce invader fell; 

And, artless, told me how he died: 

How walked he from the prison-wall 
Dress'd like some prince for a parade. 
And made no note of man or maid, 
But gazed out calmly over all. 
He look'd far off, half paused, and then 
Above the mottled sea of men 
He kiss'd his thin hand to the sun; 
Then smiled so proudly none had known 
But he was stepping to a throne, 
Tet took no note of any one. 

A nude brown beggar Peon child. 
Encouraged as the captive smiled, 
Look'd up, half scared, half pitying; 
He stopp'd, he caught it from the sands. 
Put bright coins in its two brown hands. 
Then strode on like another king. 

Two deep, a musket's length, they stood 
A-front, in sandals, nude, and dun 



As death and darkness wove in one. 
Their thick lips thirsting for his blood. 
He took each black hand one by one, 
And, smiling with a patient grace. 
Forgave them all and took his place. 

He bared his broad brow to the sun, 

Gave one long, last look to the sky. 

The white wing'd clouds that burned by, 

The olive hills in orange hue; 

A last list to the cockatoo 

That hung by beak from mango-bough 

Hard by, and hung and sung as though 

He never was to sing again. 

Hung all red-crown'd and robed in green, 

With belts of gold and blue between. — 

A bow, a touch of heart, a pall 
Of puriale smoke, a crash, a thud, 
A warrior's raiment rolled in blood, 
A face in dust and — that was all. 

Success had made him more than king; 
Defeat made him the vilest thing 
In name, contempt or hate can bring; 
So much the leaded dice of war 
Do make or mar of character. 

Speak ill who will of him, he died 
In all disgrace; say of the dead 
His heart was black, his hands were red- 
Say this much, and be satisfied; 
Gloat over it all undenied. 
I simply say he was my friend 
"When strong of hand and fair of fame: 
Dead and disgraced, I stand the same 
To him, and so shall to the end. 

I lay this crude wreath on his dust, 
Inwove with sad, sweet memories 
Eecall'd here by these colder seas. 
I leave the wild bird with his trust. 
To sing and say him nothing wrong; 
I wake no rivalry of song. 

He lies low in the levell'd sand, 
Unshelter'd from the tropic sun. 
And now of all he knew not one 



i8 



WITH WALKER IN NICARAGUA. 



Will speak him fair in that far land. 
Perhaps 'twas this that made me seek, 
Disguised, his grave one winter-tide; 
A weakness for the weaker side, 
A siding with the helpless weak. 

A palm not far held out a hand, 
Hard by a long green bamboo swung. 
And bent like some great bow unstrung, 
And quiver'd like a willow wand; 
Perch'd on its fruits that crooked hang, 
Beneath a broad banana's leaf, 
A bird in rainbow splendor sang 
A low, sad song of temper'd grief. 

No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone 
But at his side a cactus green 
Upheld its lances long and keen; 
It stood in sacred sands alone, 
Flat-palm'd and fierce with lifted spears; 
One bloom of crimson crown'd its head. 



A drop of blood, so bright, so red, 
Yet redolent as roses' tears. 

In my left hand I held a shell, 
All rosy lipp'd and i^early red; 
I laid it by his lowly bed. 
For he did love so passing well 
The grand songs of the solemn sea. 

shell! sing well, wild, with a will, 
When storms blow loud and birds be still. 
The wildest sea-song known to thee! 

I said some things with folded hands. 
Soft whisper'd in the dim sea-sound, 
And eyes held humbly to the ground, 
And frail knees simken in the sands. 
He had done more than this for me. 
And yet I could not well do more: 

1 turn'd me down the olive shore. 
And set a sad face to the sea. 

London, 1871. 



I first wrote this poem for John Brown. You can see John Brown of Harper's Ferry in his bearing, for 
Walker was not of imposing presence; also in his tenderness to the colored child on his way to death. But when 
about to publish I saw a cruel account of Gen. Walker and his grave at Truxillo, Honduras, in a London news- 
paper. It stated, among other mean things, that a board stood at the head of his grave with this inscription: 
"Here lies buried W. W., 
Who never more will trouble you, trouble you." 

I by good fortune had ready for my new book an account of a ride through a Central American forest. 
Putting this and the John Brown poem together in haste and anger, and working them over, I called the 
new poem " With Walker in Nicaragua." 

I had known Walker in Cahfornia, as a brave and gentle man of books. After I had been hurt a second 
time in the Indian wars, Gen. Crook, with whom I had been as guide and interpreter, sent me to San Francisco 
to be treated, where an officer asked me to go East with him to finish school, and I gladly set out with him, as 
there was a possibility of West Point ahead of me. We found trouble between the transit ship line and Gen. 
Walker, and we could not pass through Nicaragua. I should like, were it possible, to say bow much I owe to 
these army officers of the remote border. They were, many of them, years after, the heroes of the Civil war. Yet 
were they ever, even there in the most savage wilderness the gentlest of gentle men. With such men on the one 
hand and the wild red men on the other I touched and took in at once the very extremes of existence, and the 
stream of life, even this early, flowed swift and strong and deep and wide. See here again how fortunate were my 
misfortunes ! For had it not been for my many cruel wounds in Indian wars these men, busy with graver things, 
would not have been drawn to their "Boy veteran" and helped him along with his books and their sympathy and 
their better sense in so many ways. And how true they were, and still are, the very few survivors, as witness, more 
than a quarter of a century after the old Modoc days, in their loyalty and love they made me a comrade in the 
Army of the Potomac. Truly, as Bayard Taylor says: 

"The bravest are the tenderest; 
The loving are the daring " 

The officer returned but I stayed with Walker a little time till a ship from Chile going to the Columbia for 
lumber took me away. And so, knowing how good and dauntless he was, I determined to defend the grave of 
my dead, even though it should wreck my book and fortunes. For it was the English who, indirectly, put him to 
death, and now to heap disgrace upon his lowly grave, it was to me intolerable, and made me reckless of results. 
However, the British showed their greatness by treating me all the better for hitting back hiird as I could for 
my helpless dead. I was teaching school in Washington Territory when the story of John Brown's raid and death 
reached me and then and there I began this poem. 



THE TALE OF THE TALL, ALCALDE. 



19 



THE TALE OF THE TALL ALCALDE. 

Shadows that shroud the to-morroiv, 
Olists from the life that's within, 

Traces of pain and of sorrow, 
And maybe a trace of sin, 

Reachimjs for God in the darkness. 
And for — tvhat should have been. 

Stai7is from the gall and the wormiuood. 

Memories bitter like myrrh, 
A sad brown face in a fir wood. 

Blotches of heart's blood here. 
But never the sound of a ivailing. 

Never the sign of a tear. 



Where mouutaius repose in their blue- 

ness, 
Where the s\;n first lands in his newness, 
And marshals his beams and his lances, 
Ei-e down to the vale he advances 
With visor erect, and rides swiftly 
On the terrible night in his way, 
And slays him, and, dauntless and deftly, 
Hews out the beautiful day 
With his flashing sword of silver, — 
Lay nestled the town of Eeualda, 
Far famed for its stately Alcalde, 
The iron judge of the mountain mine, 
With heart like the heart of woman. 
Humanity more than human; — 
Far famed for its gold and silver, 
Fair maids and its mountain wine. 

The feast was full, and the guests afire. 
The shaven priest and the portly squire. 
The solemn judge and the smiling dandy, 
The duke and the don and the comman- 
dant e, 
All, save one, shouted or sang divine. 
Sailing in one great sea of wine; 
Till roused, red-crested knight Chanticleer 
Answer 'd and echo'd their song and cheer. 



Some boasted of broil, encounter, in 
battle, 
Some boasted of maidens most cleverly 

won. 
Boasted of duels most valiantly done. 
Of leagues of laud and of herds of cattle. 
These men at the feast up in fair Eenalda. 
All boasted but one, the calm Alcalde: 
ThoiTgh hard they press'd from first of 

the feast, 
Press'd commandaute, press'd poet and 

priest. 
And steadily still an attorney press'd, 
With lifted glass and his face aglow, 
Heedless of host and careless of guest — 
" A tale! the tale of your life, so ho! 
For not one man in all Mexico 
Can trace your history two decade." 
A hand on the rude one's lip was laid: 
" Sacred, my son," the priest went on, 
" Sacred the secrets of every one. 
Inviolate as an altar-stone. 
Yet what in the life of one who must 
Have lived a life that is half divine — 
Have been so pure to be so just. 
What can there be, O advocate, 
In the life of one bo desolate 



20 



THE TALE OF THE TALL, ALCALDE. 



Of luck with matron, or love with maid, 

Midnight revel or escapade. 

To stir the wonder of men at wine? 

But should the Alcalde choose, you 

know," — 
(And here his voice fell soft and low, 
As he set his wine-horn in its place, 
And look'd in the judge's careworn face) — 
" To weave us a tale that points a moral. 
Out of his vivid imagination, 
Of lass or of love, or lover's quarrel. 
Naught of his fame or name or station 
Shall lose in luster by its relation." 

Softly the judge set down his horn. 
Kindly look'd on the priest all shorn. 
And gazed in the eyes of the advocate 
With a touch of pity, but none of hate; 
Then look'd he down in the brimming 

horn. 
Half defiant and half forlorn. 

Was it a tear? Was it a sigh? 
Was it a glance of the priest's black eye? 
Or was it the drunken revel-cry 
That smote the rock of his frozen heart 
And forced his pallid lips apart? 
Or was it the weakness like to woman 
Yearning for sympathy 
Through the dark years, 
Spiirning the secrecy. 
Burning for tears. 
Proving him human, — 
As he said to the men of the silver mine. 
With their eyes held up as to one divine, 
With his eyes held down to his untouch'd 
wine: 

"It might have been where moonbeams 

kneel 
At night beside some rugged steep; 
It might have been where breakers reel. 
Or mild waves cradle one to sleep; 
It might have been in peaceful life, 
Or mad tumult and storm and strife, 
I drew my breath; it matters not. 
A silver'd head, a sweetest cot, 



A sea of tamarack and pine, 

A peaceful stream, a balmy clime, 

A cloudless sky, a sister's smile, 

A mother's love that sturdy Time 

Has strengthen'd as he strengthens wine, 

Are mine, are with me all the while, 

Are hung in memory's sounding halls. 

Are graven on her glowing walls. 

But rage, nor rack, nor wrath of man. 

Nor prayer of priest, nor price, nor ban 

Can wring from me their place or name, 

Or why, or when, or whence I came; 

Or why I left that childhood home, 

A child of form yet old of soul, 

And sought the wilds where tempests roll 

O'er snow peaks white as driven foam. 

" Mistaken and misunderstood, 
I sought a deeper wild and wood. 
A girlish form, a childish face, 
A wild waif drifting from place to place. 

" Oh for the skies of rolling blue. 
The balmy hours when lovers woo. 
When the moon is doubled as in desire, 
And the lone bird cries in his crest of fire. 
Like vespers calling the soul to bliss 
In the blessed love of the life above, 
Ere it has taken the stains of this! 

" The world afar, yet at my feet. 
Went steadily and sternly on; 
I almost fancied I could meet 
The crush and bustle of the street. 
When from my mountain I look'd down. 
And deep down in the cafion's mouth 
The long-torn ran and pick-ax rang, 
And pack-trains coming from the soi;th 
Went stringing round the mountain high 
In long gray lines, as wild geese fly, 
While mul'teers shouted hoarse and high, 
And dusty, dusky mul'teers sang — 
' Senora with the liqiiid eye! 
No floods can ever quench the flame. 
Or frozen snows my passion tame, 
O Juanna with the coal-black eye! 
O senorita. bide a bye!' 



THE TALE OF THE TALL ALCALDE. 



21 



"Environed by a mountain wall, 
That caped in snowy turrets stood; 
So fierce, so terrible, so tall, 
It never yet had been defiled 
By track or trail, save by the wild 
Free children of the wildest wood; 
An unkiss'd virgin at my feet, 
Lay my pure, hallow'd, dreamy vale, 
Where breathed the essence of my tale; 
Lone dimple iu the mountain's face, 
Lone Eden in a boundless waste 
It lay so beautiful! so sweet! 

" There in the sun's decline I stood 
By (jrod's form wrought iu pink and pearl, 
My peerless, dark-eyed Indian girl; 
And gazed out from a fringe of wood. 
With full-fed soul and feasting eyes, 
Upon an earthly paradise. 
Inclining to the south it lay, 
And long league's southward roll'd away, 
Until the sable-feather'd pines 
And tangled boughs and amorous vines 
Closed like besiegers on the scene. 
The while the stream that intertwined 
Had barely room to flow between. 
It was unlike all other streams. 
Save those seen in sweet summer dreams; 
For sleeping in its bed of snow. 
Nor rock nor stone was ever known, 
But only shining, shifting sands. 
Forever sifted by unseen hands. 
It curved, it bent like Indian bow, 
And like an arrow darted through. 
Yet uttered not a sound nor breath, 
Nor broke a ripple from the start; 
It was as swift, as still as death, 
Yet was so clear, so pure, so sweet. 
It wound its way into your heart 
As through the grasses at your feet. 

" Once, through the tall untangled 
grass, 
I saw two black bears careless pass. 
And in the twilight turn to play; 
I caught my rifle to my face. 
She raised her hand with quiet grace 



And said: ' Not so, for us the day. 
The night belongs to such as they.' 

"And then from out the shadow'd 
wood 
The antler'd deer came stalking down 
In half a shot of where I stood; 
Then stopp'd and stamp'd impatiently, 
Then shook his head and antlers high, 
And then his keen horns backward threw 
Upon his shoulders broad and brown, 
And thrust his muzzle in the air, 
Snuffd proudly; then a blast he blew 
As if to say: "No danger there." 
And then from out the sable wood 
His mate and two sweet dappled fawns 
Stole forth, and by the monarch stood, 
Such bronzes, as on kingly lawns; 
Or seen in picture, read in tale. 
Then he, as if to reassure 
The timid, trembling and demure, 
Again his antlers backward threw, 
Again a blast defiant blew, 
Then led them proudly down the vale. 

" I watch'd the forms of darkness come 
Slow stealing from their sylvan home. 
And pierce the sunlight drooping low 
And weary, as if loth to go. 
Night stain'd the lances as he bled, 
And, bleeding and pursued, he fled 
Across the vale into the wood. 
I saw the tall grass bend its head 
Beneath the stately martial tread 
Of Shades, pursuer and pursued. 

" 'Behold the clouds, 'Winnema said, 
' All purple with the blood of day; 
The night has conquer'd in the fray. 
The shadows live, and light is dead.' 

" She turn'd to Shasta gracefully. 
Around whose hoar and mighty head 
Still roll'd a sunset sea of red. 
While troops of clouds a space below 
Were drifting wearily and slow, 
As seeking shelter for the night 



22 



THE TALE OF THE TALL, ALCALDE. 



Like weary sea-birds in their flight; 
Then curved her right arm ^gracefully 
Above her brow, and bow'd her knee, 
And chanted in an unknown tongue 
Words sweeter than were ever sung. 

" 'And what means this?' I gently said. 
• I prayed to God, the Yopitone, 
Who dwells on yonder snowy throne,' 
She softly said with drooping head; 
' I bow'd to God. He heard my prayer, 
I felt his warm breath in my hair, 
He heard me all my wishes tell, 
For God is good, and all is well.' 

" The dappled and the dimpled skies, 
The timid stars, the spotted moon. 
All smiled as sweet as sun at noon. 
Her eyes were like the rabbit's eyes. 
Her mien, her manner, just as mild. 
And though a savage war-chief's child, 
She wouM not harm the lowliest worm. 
And, though her beaded foot was firm. 
And though her airy step was true, 
She would not crush a drop of dew. 

•' Her love was deeper than the sea. 
And stronger than the tidal rise. 
And clung in all its strength to me. 
A face like hers is never seen 
This side the gates of paradise. 
Save in some Indian Summer scene, 
A.nd then none ever sees it twice — 
Is seen but once, and seen no more. 
Seen but to tempt the skeptic soul. 
And show a sample of the whole 
That Heaven has in store. 

"You might have plucked beams from 
the moon, 
Or torn the shadow from the pine 
When on its dial track at noon. 
But not have parted us one hour, 
She was so wholly, truly mine. 
And life was one unbroken dream 
Of purest bliss and calm delight, 
A flow'ry-shored, untroubled stream 



Of sun and song, of shade and bower, 
A fuU-moon'd serenading night. 

" Sweet melodies were in the air. 
And tame birds caroll'd everywhere. 
I listened to the lisping grove 
And cooing pink-eyed turtle dove, 
I loved her with the holiest love; 
Believing with a brave belief 
That everything beneath the skies 
Was beautiful and born to love, 
That man had but to love, believe. 
And earth would be a paradise 
As beautiful as that above. 
My goddess. Beauty, I adored, 
Devoutly, fervid, her alone; 
My Priestess, Love, unceasing pour'd 
Pure incense on her altar-stone. 

" I carved my name in coarse design 
Once on a birch down by the way, 
At which she gazed, as she would say, 
' What does this say? What is this sign?' 
And when I gaily said, ' Some day 
Some one will come and read my name, 
And I will live in song and fame. 
Entwined with many a mountain tale. 
As he who first found this sweet vale, 
And they will give the place my name,' 
She was most sad, and troubled much. 
And looked in silence far awaj'^; 
Then started trembling from my touch, 
And when she turn'd her face again, 
I read unutterable pain. 

"At last she answered through her 
tears, 
'Ah! yes; this, too, foretells my fears: 
Yes, they will come — my race must go 
As fades a vernal fall of snow; 
And you be known, and I forg.ot 
Like these brown leaves that rust and rot 
Beneath my feet; and it is well: 
I do not seek to thrust my name 
On those who here, hereafter, dwell, 
Because I have before them dwelt; 



THE TALE OF THE TALL, ALCALDE. 



23 



They too will have their tales to tell, 
They too will have their time and fame. 

" ' Tes, they will come, come even now; 
The dim ghosts on yon mountain's brow, 
Gray Fathers of my tribe and race, 
Do beckon to lis from their place, 
And hurl red arrows through the air 
At night, to bid our braves beware. 
A footprint by the clear McCloud, 
Unlike aught ever seen before. 
Is seen. The crash of rifles loud 
Is heard along its farther shore.' 

" What tall and tawny men were these. 
As somber, silent, as the trees 
They moved among! and sad some way 
With temper'd sadness, ever they, — 
Yet not with sorrow born of fear. 
The shadow of their destinies 
They saw approaching year by year, 
And murmiir'd not. They saw the sun 
Go down; they saw the peaceful moon 
Move on in silence to her rest. 
Saw white streams winding to the west; 
And thus they knew that oversoou, 
Somehow, somewhere, for every one 
Was rest beyond the setting sun. 
They knew not, never dream'd of doubt. 
But turn'd to death as to a sleep. 
And died with eager hands held out 
To reaching hands beyond the deep, — 
And died with choicest bow at hand. 
And quiver full, and arrow drawn 
For use, when sweet to-morrow's dawn 
Should waken in the Spirit Land. 

" What wonder that I linger'd there 
With Nature's children! Could I jjart 
With those that met me heart to heart, 
And made me welcome, spoke me fair, 
Were first of all that understood 
My waywardness from others' ways, 
My worship of the true and good. 
And earnest love of Nature's God? 
Go court the mountains in the clouds, 
And clashing thunder, and the shrouds 



Of tempests, and eternal shocks, 
And fast and pray as one of old 
In earnestness, and ye shall hold 
The mysteries; shall hold the rod 
That passes seas, that smites the rocks 
Where streams of melody and song 
Shall run as white streams rush and flow 
Down from the mountains' crests of snow. 
Forever, to a thirsting throng. 

" Between the white man and the red 
There lies no neutral, halfway ground. 
I heard afar the thunder sound 
That soon should burst above my head, 
And made my choice; I laid my plan, 
And childlike chose the weaker side; 
And ever have, and ever will, 
While might is wrong and wrongs remain, 
As careless of the world as I 
Am careless of a cloudless sky. 
With wayward and romantic joy 
I gave my pledge like any boy, 
But kept my promise like a man. 
And lost; yet with the lesson still 
Would gladly do the same again. 

'"They come! they come! the pale-face 
come!' 
The chieftain shouted where he stood. 
Sharp watching at tiie margin wood. 
And gave the war-whoop's treble yell, 
That like a knell on fond hearts fell 
Far watching from my rocky home. 

"No nodding plumes or banners fair 
Unfurl'd or fretted through the air; 
No screaming fife or rolling drum 
Did challenge brave of soul to come: 
But, silent, sinew-bows were strung, 
And, sudden, heavy quivers hung 
And, swiftly, to the battle sprung 
Tall painted braves with tufted hair. 
Like death-black banners in the air. 

"And long they fought, and firm and 
well 
And silent fought, and silent fell, 



24 



THE TALE OF THE TALL ALCALDE. 



Save when they gave the fearful yell 
Of death, defiance, or of hate. 
But what were feathered flints to fate? 
And what were yells to seething lead ? 
And what the few and untrained feet 
To troops that came with martial tread, 
And moved by wood and hill and stream 
As thick as people in a street. 
As strange as spirits in a dream? 

"From pine and poplar, here and there, 
A cloud, a flash, a crash, a thud, 
A warrior's garments roU'd in blood, 
A yell that rent the mountain air 
Of fierce defiance and despair, 
Told all who fell, and when and where. 
Then tighter drew the coils around, 
And closer grew the battle-ground, 
And fewer feather'd arrows fell. 
And fainter grew the battle yell, 
Until upon that hill was heard 
The short, sharp whistle of the bird: 
Until that blood-soaked battle hill 
Was still as death, so more than still. 

"The calm, that cometh after all, 
Look'd sweetly down at shiit of day. 
Where friend and foe commingled lay 
Like leaves of forest as they fall. 
Afar the somber mountains frown'd. 
Here tall pines wheel'd their shadows 

round. 
Like long, slim fingers of a hand 
That sadly pointed out the dead. 
Like some broad shield high overhead 
The great white moon led on and on, 
As leading to the better land. 
All night I heard the cricket's trill, 
That night-bird calling from the hill — 
The place was so profoundly still. 

" The mighty chief at last was down, 
A broken gate of brass and pride! 
His hair all dust, and this his crown! 
His firm lips were compress'd in hate 
To foes, yet all content with fate; 
While, circled round him thick, the foe 



Had folded hands in dust, and died. 
His tomahawk lay at his side. 
All blood, beside his broken bow. 
One arm stretch'd out, still over-bold. 
One hand half doubled hid in dust, 
And clutch'd the earth, as if to hold 
His hunting grounds still in his trust. 

" Here tall grass bow'd its tassel'd head 
In dewy tears above the dead. 
And there they lay in crook'd fern, 
That waved and wept above by turn: 
And further on, by somber trees. 
They lay, wild heroes of wild deeds, 
In shrouds alone of weeping weeds. 
Bound in a never-to-be-broken peace. 

" No trust that day had been betrayed; 
Not one had falter'd, not one brave 
Survived the fearful struggle, save 
One — save I the renegade, 
The red man's friend, and — they held me 

so 
For this alone — the white man's foe. 

" They bore me bound for many a day 
Through fen and wild, by foamy flood, 
From my dear mountains far away. 
Where an adobe prison stood 
Beside a sultry, sullen, town. 
With iron eyes and stony frown; 
And in a dark and narrow cell. 
So hot it almost took my breath. 
And seem'd but some outpost of hell, 
They thrust me — as if I had been 
A monster, in a monster's den. 
I cried aloud, I courted death, 
I call'd unto a strip of sky. 
The only thing beyond my cell 
That I could see, but no reply 
Came but the echo of my breath. 
I paced — how long I cannot tell — 
My reason fail'd, I knew no more. 
And swooning, fell upon the floor. 
Then months went on, till deep one night. 
When long thin bars of cool moonlight 



THE TALE OF THE TALL. ALCALDE. 



25 



Lay shimmering along the floor, 
My senses came to me ouce more. 

"My eyes look'd full into her eyes — 
Into her soul so true and tried, 
I thought myself in paradise. 
And wouder'd when she too had died. 
And then I saw the striped light 
That struggled past the prison bar, 
And in an instant, at the sight. 
My sinking soul fell just as far 
As could a star loosed by a jar 
From out the setting in a ring, 
The purpled semi-circled ring 
That seems to circle us at night. 

"She saw my senses had return'd, 
Then swift to press my pallid face — 
Then, as if spurn'd, she sudden turn'd 
Her sweet face to the prison wall; 
Her bosom rose, her hot tears fell 
Fast as drip moss-stones in a well. 
And then, as if subduing all 
In one strong struggle of the soul 
Be what they were of vows or fears, 
With kisses and hot tender tears, 
There in the deadly, loathsome place, 
She bathed my pale and piteous face. 

" I was so weak I could not speak 
Or press my pale lips to her cheek; 
1 only looked my wish to shave 
The secret of her presence there. 
Then looking through her falling hair. 
She press'd her finger to her lips, 
More sweet than sweets the brown bee sips. 
More sad than any grief untold, 
More silent than the milk-white moon, 
She turned away. I heard unfold 
An iron door, and she was gone. 

"At last, one midnight, I was free; 
Again I felt the liquid air 
Around my hot brow like a sea, 
Sweet as my dear Madonna's prayer. 
Or benedictions on the soul; 
Pure air, which God gives free to all. 



Again I breathed without control — 
Pure air that man would fain enthrall; 
God's air, which man hath seized and 

sold 
Unto his fellow-man for gold. 

"I bow'd down to the bended sky, 
Itoss'd my two thin hands on high, 
I call'd unto the crooked moon, 
I shouted to the shining stars. 
With breath and rapture uncontroll'd, 
Like some wild school-boy loosed at 

noon. 
Or comrade coming from the wars, 
Hailing his companiers of old. 

" Short time for shouting or delay, — 
The cock is shrill, the east is gray. 
Pursuit is made, I must away. 
They cast me on a sinewy steed. 
And bid me look to girth and guide — 
A caution of but little need. 
I dash the iron in his side, 
Swift as the shooting stars I ride; 
I turn, I see, to my dismay, 
A silent rider red as they; 
I glance again — it is my bride. 
My love, my life, rides at my side. 

"By gulch and gorge and brake and all, 
Swift as the shining meteors fall. 
We fly, and never sound nor word 
But ringing mustang hoof is heard, 
And limbs of steel and lungs of steam 
Could not be stronger than theirs seem. 
Grandly as in some joyous dream, 
League on league, and hour on hour. 
Far from keen pursuit, or power 
Of sheriff or bailiff", high or low. 
Into the bristling hills we go. 

" Into the tumbled, clear McCloud, 
White as the foldings of a shroud; 
We dash into the dashing stream. 
We breast the tide, we drop the rein. 
We clutch the streaming, tangled mane— 
And yet the rider at my side 
Has never look nor word replied. 



26 



THE TALE OF THE TALL, ALCALDE. 



"Out in its foam, its rush, its roar, 
Breasting away to the farther shore; 
Steadily, bravely, gain'd at last, 
Gain'd, where never a dastard foe 
Has dared to come, or friend to go. 
Pursuit is baffled and danger pass'd. 

" Under an oak whose wide arms were 
Lifting aloft, as if in prayer, 
Under an oak, where the shining moon 
Like feather'd snow in a winter noon 
Quiver'd, sifted, and drifted down 
In spars and bars on her shoulders brown: 
And yet she was as silent still 
As block stones toppled from the hill — 
Great basalt blocks that near us lay. 
Deep nestled in the grass untrod 
By aught save wild beasts of the wood — 
Great, massive, squared, and chisel'd 

stone. 
Like columns that had toppled down 
From temple dome or tower crown, 
Along some drifted, silent way 
Of desolate and desert town 
Built by the children of the sun. 
And I in silence sat on one. 
And she stood gazing far away 
To where her childhood forests lay, 
Still as the stone I sat upon. 

"I sought to catch her to my breast 
And charm her from her silent mood; 
She shrank as if a beam, a breath. 
Then silently before me stood, 
Still, coldly, as the kiss of death. 
Her face was darker than a pall. 
Her presence was so proudly tall, 
I would have started from the stone 
Where I sat gazing up at her, 
As from a form to earth unknown, 
Had I possess'd the power to stir, 

" 'O touch me not, no more, no more; 
'Tis past, and my sweet dream is o'er. 
Impure! Impure! Impure!' she cried. 
In words as sweetly, wierdly wild 
As mingling of a rippled tide, 



And music on the waters spill'd. . . . 
'But you are free, Fly! Fly alone. 
Yes, you will win another bride 
In some far clime where nought is known 
Of all that you have won or lost, 
Or what your liberty has cost; 
Will win you name, and place, and power. 
And ne'er recall this face, this hour. 
Save in some secret, deep regret. 
Which I forgive and you'll forget. 
Your destiny will lead you on 
Where, open'd wide to welcome you, 
Rich, ardent hearts and bosoms are. 
And snowy arms, more piirely fair, 
And breasts — who dare say bi'easts more 
true? 

" ' They said yoii had deserted me. 
Had rued you of your wood and wild. 
I knew, I knew it could not be, 
I trusted as a triisting child. 
I cross'd yon mountains bleak and high 
That curve their rough backs to the sky, 
I rode the white-maned mountain flood. 
And track'd for weeks the trackless wood. 
The good God led me, as before, 
And brought me to your prison-door. 

"'That madden'd call! that fever'd 
moan! 
I heard you in the midnight call 
My own name through the massive wall, 
In my sweet mountain-tongue and tone — 
And yet j'oii call'd so feebly wild, 
I near mistook you for a child. 

The keeper with his clinking keys 
I sought, implored upon my knees 
That I might see you, feel yoiir breath. 
Your brow, or breathe you low replies 
Of comfort in your lonely death. 
His red face shone, his redder eyes 
Were like a fiend's that feeds on lies. 
Again I heard your feeble moan, 
I cried— unto a heart of stone. 
Ah! why the hateful horrors tell? 
Enough! I crept into your cell. 



THE TALE OF THE TALL ALCALDE. 



27 



" ' I nursed you, lured j-ou back to life, 
Aud when you kuew, and called me wife 
Aud love, with i^ale lips rife 
With love and feeble loveliness, 
I turu'd away, I hid my face. 
In mad reproach and such distress, 
In dust down in that loathsome place. 

" 'And then I vow'd a solemn vow 
That you should live, live aud be free. 
And you have lived — are free; and now 
Too slow yon red sun comes to see 
My life or death, or me again. 
Oh, death! the peril and the pain 
I have endured! the dark, dark stain 
That I did take on my fair soul. 
All, all to save you, make you free, 
Ai-e more than mortal can endure; 
But flame can make the foulest pure. 

" 'Behold this finished funeral pyre. 
All ready for the form and fire. 
Which these, my own hands, did prepare 
For this last night; then lay me there. 
I would not hide me from my God 
Beneath the cold and sullen sod, 
But, wrapp'd in fiery shining shroud, 
Ascend to Him, a wreathing cloud.' 

"She paused, she turu'd, she leau'd 
apace 
Her glance and half-regretting face. 
As if to yield herself to me; 
And then she cried, ' It cannot be. 
For I have vow'd a solemn vow, 
Aud, God help me to keep it now!' 

" I stood with arms extended wide 
To catch her to my burning breast; 
She caught a dagger from her side 
And, ere I knew to stir or start. 
She plunged it in her burstiug heart, 
And fell into my arms and died — 
Died as my soul to hers was press'd. 
Died as I held her to my breast, 
Died without one word or moan. 
And left me with my dead — alone. 



" I laid her warm upon the pile. 
And underneath the lisping oak 
I watch'd the columns of dark smoke 
Embrace her red lips, with a smile 
Of frenzied fierceness, while there came 
A gleaming column of red flame. 
That grew a grander monument 
Above her nameless noble mould 
Than ever bronze or marble lent 
To king or conqueror of old. 

"It seized her in its hot embrace, 
And leapt as if to reach the stars. 
Then looking up I saw a face 
So saintly and so sweetly fair. 
So sad, so i^itying, and so pure, 
I nigh forgot the jarison bars, 
Aud for one instant, one alone, 
I felt I could forgive, endure. 

" I laid a circlet of white stone, 

And left her ashes there alone 

Years after, years of storm and pain, 
I sought that sacred ground again. 
I saw the circle of white stone 
With tall, wild grasses overgrown. 
I did expect, I know not why. 
From out her sacred dust to find 
Wild pinks and daisies blooming fair; 
And wheu I did uot find them there 
I almost deeni'd her God unkind, 
Less careful of her dust than I. 

" But why the dreary tale prolong? 
And deem j'ou I confess'd me wrong. 
That I did bend a patient knee 
To all the deep wrongs done to me? 
That I, because the prison mould 
Was on my brow, and all its chill 
Was in my heart as chill as night. 
Till soul and body both were cold, 
Did curb my free-born mountain will 
And sacrifice my sense of right ? 

"No! no! and had they come that day 
While I with bauds and garments red 
Stood by her pleading, patient clay, 
The one lone watcher by my dead. 



28 



THE TALE OF THE TALL ALCALDE. 



With cross-liilt dagger in my hand, 

And offer'd me my life and all 

Of titles, power, or of place, 

I should have s^iat them in the face, 

And spurn'd them every one. 

I live as God gave me to live, 

I see as God gave me to see. 

'Tis not my nature to forgive. 

Or cringe and plead and bend the knee 

To God or man in woe or weal, 

In penitence I cannot feel. 

" I do not question school nor creed 
Of Christian, Protestant, or Priest; 
I only know that creeds to me 
Are but new names for mystery, 
That good is good from east to east, 
And more I do not know nor need 
To know, to love my neighbor well. 
I take their dogmas, as they tell. 
Their pictures of their Godly good, 
In garments thick with heathen blood; 
Their heaven with his harp of gold, 
Their horrid pictures of their hell — 
Take hell and heaven undenied. 
Yet were the two placed side by side. 
Placed full before me for my choice. 
As they are pictured, best and ■worst. 
As they are peopled, tame and bold, 
The canonized, and the accursed 
Who dared to think, and thinking speak. 
And speaking act, bold cheek to cheek, 
I would in transports choose the first, 
And enter hell with lifted voice. 

" Go read the annals of the North 
And records there of many a wail. 
Of marshalling and going forth 
For missing sheriffs, and for men 
Who fell and none knew how nor when, — 
Who disappear'd on mountain trail. 
Or in some dense and narrow vale. 
Go, traverse Trinity and Scott, 
That curve their dark backs to the sun: 
Go, prowl them all. Lo! have they not 
The chronicles of my wild life? 



My secrets on their lips of stone. 
My archives built of human bone? 
Go, range their wilds as I have done, 
From snowy crest to sleeping vales. 
And yoii will find on every one 

Enough to swell a thousand tales. 

* * # » » 

" The soul cannot survive alone, 
And hate will die, like other things; 
I felt an ebbing in my rage; 
I hunger'd for the sound of one, 
Just one familiar word, — 
Yearn'd but to hear my fellow speak, 
Or sound of woman's mellow tone. 
As beats the wild, imprison'd bird. 
That long nor kind nor mate has heard. 
With bleeding wings and panting beak 
Against its iron cage. 

" I saw a low-roof 'd rancho lie, 
Far, far below, at set of sun. 
Along the foot-hills crisp and dun — 
A lone sweet star in lower sky; 
Saw children passing to and fro. 
The busy housewife come and go. 
And white cows come at her command. 
And none look'd larger than my hand. 
Then worn and torn, and tann'd and 

brown. 
And heedless all, I hasten'd down; 
A wanderer, wandering lorn and late, 
I stood before the rustic gate. 

" Two little girls, with brown feet bare, 
And tangled, tossing, yellow hair, 
Play'd on the green, fantastic dress'd, 
Around a great Newfoundland brute 
That lay half-resting on his breast. 
And with his red mouth open'd wide 
Would make believe that he would bite. 
As they assail'd him left and right, 
And then sprang to the other side, 
And fiU'd with shouts the willing air. 
Oh, sweeter far than lyre or lute 
To my then hot and thirsty heart, 
And better self so wholly mute, 
Were those sweet voices calling there. 



THE TALE OF THE TALL ALCALDE. 



29 



"Though some sweet scenes my eyes 
have seen, 
Some melody my soul has heard, 
No song of any maid, oi' bird, 
Or splendid wealth of tropic scene, 
Or scene or song of anywhere. 
Has my impulsive soul so stirr'd. 
As those young angels sporting there. 

"The dog at sight of me arose. 
And nobly stood with lifted nose, 
Afront the children, now so still, 
And staring at me with a will. 
' Come in, come in,' the rancher cried. 
As here and there the housewife hied; 
' Sit down, sit down, you travel late. 
What news of politics or war? 
And are you tired ? Go you far ? 
And where you from? Be quick, my Kate, 
This boy is sure in need of food.' 
The little children close by stood. 
And watch'd and gazed iuquiriuglj'. 
Then came and climbed upon my knee. 

" ' That there's my Ma,' the eldest said, 
And laugh'd and toss'd her pretty head; 
And then, half bating of her joy, 
' Have you a Ma, you stranger boy?- 
And there hangs Carlo on the wail 
As large as life; that mother drew 
With berry stains upon a shred 
Of tattered tent; but hardly you 
Would know the picture his at all. 
For Carlo's black, and this is red.' 
Again she laugh'd, and shook her head. 
And shower'd curls all out of place; 
Then sudden sad, she raised her face 
To mine, and tenderly she said, 
'Have you, like us, a pretty home? 
Have you, like me, a dog and toj^ ? 
Where do j'ou live, and whither roam? 
And Where's your Pa, poor stranger boy?' 

"It seem'd so sweetly out of place 
Again to meet my fellow-man. 
I gazed and gazed upon his face 
As something I had never seen. 



The melody of woman's voice 

Fell on my ear as falls the rain 

Upon the weary, waiting plain. 

I heard, and drank and drank again. 

As earth with crack'd lips drinks the rain. 

In green to revel and rejoice. 

I ate with thanks my frugal food. 

The first return'd for many a day. 

I had met kindness by the way! 

I had at last encounter'd good! 

" I sought my couch, but not to sleep; 
New thoughts were coursing strong and 

deep 
My wild, impulsive passion-heart; 
I could not rest, my heart was moved, 
My iron will forgot its part. 
And I wept like a child reproved. 

"I lay and pictured me a life 
Afar from peril, hate, or pain; 
Enough of battle, blood, and strife, 
I would take up life's load again; 
And ere the breaking of the morn 
I swung my rifle from the horn. 
And tiTrned to other scenes and lands 
With lighteu'd heart and whiten'd hands. 

" Where orange blossoms never die, 
Where red fruits ripen all the year 
Beneath a sweet and balmy sky, 
Far from my language or my land. 
Reproach, regret, or shame or fear, 
I came in hope, I wauder'd here — 
Yes, here; and this red, bony hand 
That holds this glass of ruddy cheer — " 

"'Tis he!" hiss'd the crafty advocate. 
He sprang to his feet, and hot with hate 
He reach'd his hands, and he call'd aloud, 
"'Tis the renegade of the red McCloud!" 

Slowly the Alcalde rose from his chair; 
" Hand me, touch me, him who dare! " 
And his heavy glass on the board of oak 
He smote with such savage and mighty 

stroke. 
It ground to dust in his bony hand. 



^>o 



THE TALE OF THE TALL ALCALDE. 



And heavy bottles did clink and tip 

As if an earthquake were in the land. 

He tower'd up, and in his ire 

Seem'd taller than a church's spire. 

He gazed a moment — and then, the while 

An icy cold and defiant smile 

Did curve his thin and his livid lip. 



He turn'd on his heel, he strode througl 

the hall 
Grand as a god, so grandly tall. 
Yet white and cold as a chisel'd stone; 
He passed him out the adobe door 
Into the night, and he pass'd alone. 
And never was known or heard of more. 



The lesson of this poem is that of persistent toil and endeavor. It certainly is not " a little thing dashed ofl 
before breakfast," for it was twice revised and published before its first appearance in London, and has been cut 
and revised at least half a dozen times since; and is still incomplete and very unsatisfying to the writer, except as 
to the descriptions. It was my first attempt at telling a story in verse, that was thought worth preserving. It 
was begun when but a lad, camped with our horses for a month's rest in an old adobe ruin on the Reading Ranch, 
with the gleaming snows of Mount Shasta standing out above the clouds against the cold, blue north. The story is 
not new, having been written, or at least lived in every mountain land of intermixed races that has been: a young 
outlaw in love with a wild mountain Ijeauty, his battles for her people against his own, the capture, prison, 
brave release, flight, return, and revenge- a sort of modified Mazeppa. But it has been a fat source of feeding 
for grimly humorous and sensational writers, who long ago claimed to have found in it the story of my early lite; 
and strangely enough I was glad when they did so, and read their stories with wild delight. I don't know why I 
always encouraged this idea of having been an outlaw, but I recall that when Trelawny told me that Byron was 
more ambitious to be thought the hero of his wildest poems than even to be king of Greece I could not help saying 
to myself, as Napoleon said to the thunders preceding Waterloo. "We are of accord." 

The only serious trouble about the claim that I made the fight of life up the ugly steeps from a hole in an 
adobe prison-wall to the foothills of Olympus instead of over the pleasant campus of a college, is the fact that 
"our friends the enemy" fixed the date at about the same time in which I am on record as reading my class 
poem in another land. Besides, I was chosen to the bench on the very ticket when the very sheriff who should 
have kept me in his adobe prison was elected senator, and by some of the very men of my Mount Shasta with 
whom I had served in war against these same Indians for whom it is said I sold my birthright. Or did I have 
a double, and was it the other self who was at college? And is it not possible that I am even now the original 
and only real Joaquin Murietta? For more than once in the old days I was told (and how pleased I was to 
hear it said) that no other than Joaquin Murietta could ever ride as I rode. But here again is contusion, even 
more than the confusion of dates and deeds and names. For his hair was as black as a whole midnight, while 
mine was the hue of hammered gold. And, after all, was it not my vanity and willingness to be thought 
Joaquin, raiher than pity for the brave boy outlaw, driven to desperation by wrongs too brutal to be told, 
that made me write of him and u.surp his bloody name? Anyhow, I'd rather to-day be Joaquin Murietta, dead or 
living, than the wretch who got the reward for his alleged taking off. And was Joaquin Murietta really 
killed when that party of Texans surprised and butchered a band of unarmed Mexicans? Nine men in ten will say 
not. 

Mrs. Gale Page, daughter of an early governor of Oregon, told me at Walla Walla, July 5th, 1896, in her own 
house, that her father, who knew and liked Joaquin, when a miner, had had two letters from him, dated and 
postmarked Mexico, years after his alleged death. So he certainly was not killed as told. But pity, pity, that 
men should so foolishly waste time with either me or mine when I have led them into the mighty heart of ma- 
jestic Shasta. Why yonder, lone as God and white as the great white throne, there looms against the sapphire 
upper sens a moimtain peak that props the very porch of heaven; and yet they bother with and want to torment a 
poor mote of dust that sinks in the grasses at their feet ! Why, 1 know a single canon there so deep, so bottom- 
less, and broad and somber that a whole night once housed there and let a gold and silver day glide on and on 
and over it all the vast day long, and all day long night lay there undiscovered Yet in this presence there be 
those who will stoop to look at a mere mote at their feet, or on their shoes, and bother to know whether it be 
a black speck or a white; preferring, however, to find it black. 



THE I^AST TASCHASTAS. 



31 



THE LAST TASCHASTAS. 

The hills xvere hroion, the heavens were blue, 
A woodpecker pounded a pine-top shell, 

While a partridge whittled the whole day through 
For a rabbit to dance in the chapparal, 
And a grey grouse drummed, "All's well, all's loell." 



Wrinkleii and brown as a bag of leather, 
A sqiiaw sits moaning long and low. 
Yesterday she was a wife and mother. 
To-day she is rocking her to and fro, 
A childless widow, in weeds and woe. 

An Indian sits in a rocky cavern 
Chipping a flint in an arrow head; 
His children are moving as still as shadows. 
His squaw is moulding some balls of lead. 
With round face painted a battle-i-ed. 

An Indian sits in a black-jack jungle, 
Where a grizzly bear has rear'd her young, 
Whetting a flint on a granite boulder. 
His quiver is over his brown back hung — 
His face is streak'd and his bow is strung. 

An Indian hangs from a cliff of granite. 
Like an eagle's nest built in the air. 
Looking away to the east, and watching 
The smoke of the cabins curling there. 
And eagle's feathers are in his hair. 

In belt of wampum, in battle fashion 
An Indian watches with wild desire. 
He is red with paint, he is black with pas- 
sion; 
And grand as a god in his savage ire. 
He leans and listens till stars are a-tire. 

All somber and sullen and sad, a chieftain 
Now looks from the mountain far into the 

sea. 
Just before him beat in the white billows, 
Just behind him the toppled tall tree 
And woodmen chopping, knee buckled 

to knee. 



All together, all in council, 

In a canon wall'd so high 

That no thing could ever reach them 

Save some stars dropp'd from the sky. 

And the brown bats sweeping bj': 

Tawny chieftains thin and wiry. 
Wise as brief, and brief as bold; 
Chieftains young and fierce and fiery. 
Chieftains stately, stern and old, 
Bronzed and battered — battered gold. 

Flamed the council-fire brighter, 
Flash'd black eyes like diamond beads, 
When a woman told her sorrows. 
While a warrior told his deeds, 
And a widow tore her weeds. 

Then was lit the pipe of council 
That their fathers smoked of old, 
With its stem of mauzauita. 
And its bowl of quartz and gold. 
And traditions manifold. 

How from lip to lip in silence 
Burn'd it round the circle red. 
Like an evil star slow passing 
(Sign of battles and bloodshed) 
Eouud the heavens overhead. 

Then the silence deep was broken 

By the thunder rolling far, 

As gods muttering in auger. 

Or the bloody battle-car 

Of some Christian king at war. 

' 'Tis the sijirits of my Fathers 
Mutt'ring vengeance in the skies; 



32. 



THE LAST TASCHASTAS. 



And the flashing of the lightning 
Is the anger of their eyes, 
Bidding us in battle rise," 

Cried the war-chief, now uprising. 
Naked all above the waist, 
While a belt of shells and silver 
Held his tamoos to its place, 
And the war-paint streaked his face. 

Women melted from the council, 
Boys crept backward out of sight. 
Till alone a wall of warriors 
In their paint and battle-plight 
Sat reflecting back the light. 

"O my Fathers in the storm-cloud!" 
(Red arms tossing to the skies, 
While the massive walls of granite 
Seem'd to shrink to half their size. 
And to mutter strange replies)— 

" Soon we come, O angry Fathers, 
Down the darkness you have cross'd: 
Speak for hunting-grounds there for us; 
Those you left us we have lost- 
Gone like blossoms in a frost. 

"Warriors!" (and his arms fell folded 
On his tawny swelling breast. 
While his voice, now low and plaintive 
As the waves in their unrest. 
Touching tenderness confess'd), 

"Where is Wrotto, wise of counsel, 
Yesterday here in his place ? 
A brave lies dead down in the valley. 
Last brave of his line and race, 
And a Ghost sits on his face. 

" Where his boy the tender-hearted, 
With his mother yestermoru ? 
Lo! a wigwam door is darken'd, 
And a mother moiirns forlorn. 
With her long locks toss'd and torn. 

"Lo! our daughters have been gather'd 

From among us by the foe. 

Like the lilies they once gather'd 



In the spring-time all aglow 
From the banks of living snow. 

"Through the land where we for ages 
Laid the bravest, dearest dead. 
Grinds the savage white man's plow- 
share 
Grinding sires' bones for bread — 
We shall give them blood instead. 

"I saw white skulls in a furrow. 
And around the cursed plowshare 
Clung the flesh of my own children. 
And my mother's tangled hair 
Trailed along the furrow there. 

"Warriors! braves! I cry for vengeance! 
And the dim ghosts of the dead 
Unavenged do wail and shiver 
In the storm cloiid overhead. 
And shoot arrows battle-red." 

Then he ceased, and sat among them, 
With his long locks backward strown; 
They as mute as men of marble. 
He a king upon the throne, 
And as still as any stone. 

Then uprose the war chief's daughter. 
Taller than the tassell'd corn. 
Sweeter than the kiss of morning, 
Sad as some sweet star of morn, 
Half defiant, half forlorn. 

Eobed in skins of striped panther 
Lifting loosely to the air 
With a face a shade of sorrow 
And black eyes that said, Beware! 
Nestled in a storm or hair; 

With her striped robes around her, 
Fasten'd by an eagle's beak. 
Stood she by the stately chieftain. 
Proud and pure as Shasta's peak, 
As she ventured thus to speak: 

" Must the tomahawk of battle 

Be unburied where it lies, 

O, last war chief of Taschastas? 



THE LAST TASCHASTAS. 



33 



Must the smoke of battle rise 
Like a storm cloud in the skies ? 

" True, some wretch has laid a brother 
With his swift feet to the sun, 
But because one bough is broken, 
Must the broad oak be undone? 
All the fir trees fell'd as one ? 

" True, the braves have faded, wasted 
Like ripe blossoms in the rain, 
But when we have spent the arrows. 
Do we twang the string in vain, 
And then snap the bow in twain?" 

Like a vessel in a tempest 
Shook the warrior, wild and grim, 
As he gazed out in the midnight, 
As to things that beckon'd him. 
And his eyes were moist and dim. 

Then he turn'd, and to his bosom 
Battle-scarr'd, and strong as brass, 
Tenderly the wan-ior press'd her 
As if she were made of glass, 
Murmuring, " Alas! alas! 

" Loua Ellah! Spotted Lily! 
Streaks of blood shall be the sign, 
On their cursed and mystic pages, 
Representing me and mine! 
By Tonatiu's fiery shrine! 

' ' When the grass shall grow untrodden 
In my war path, and the plow 
Shall be grinding through this canon 
Where my braves are gather'd now. 
Still shall they record this vow: 

"War and vengeance! rise, my warrior, 
Kise and shout the battle sign. 
Ye who love revenge and glory! 
Ye for peace, in silence pine, 
And no more be braves of mine." 

Then the war yell roU'd and echoed 
As they started from the ground, 
Till an eagle from his cedar 



Starting, answer'd back the sound. 
And flew circling round and round. 

" Enough, enough, my kingly father," 
And the glory of her eyes 
Flash'd the valor and the passion 
That may sleep but never dies, 
As she proudly thus replies: 

" Can the cedar be a willow, 
Pliant and as little worth? 
It shall stand the king of forests, 
Or its fall shall shake the earth. 
Desolating heart and hearth!" 



From cold east shore to warm west sea 

The red men followed the red sun. 

And faint and failing fast as he. 

They knew too well their race was run. 

This ancient tribe, press'd to the wave, 

There fain had slept a patient slave. 

And died out as red embers die 

From flames that once leapt hot and high; 

But, roused to anger, half arose 

Around that chief, a sudden flood, 

A hot and hungry cry for blood; 

Half drowsy shook a feeble hand, 

Then sank back in a tame repose. 

And left him to his fate and foes, 

A stately wreck upon the strand. 

His eye was like the lightning's wing. 
His voice was like a rushing flood; 
And when a captive bound he stood 
His presence look'd the perfect king. 

'Twas held at first that he should die: 
I never knew the reason why 
A milder council did prevail. 
Save that we shrank from blood, and save 
That brave men do respect the brave. 
Down sea sometimes there was a sail. 
And far at sea, they said, an isle, 
And he was sentenced to exile; 
In open boat upon the sea 



34 



THE LAST TASCHASTAS. 



To go the instant on the main, 

And never under penalty 

Of death to touch the shore again. 

A troop of bearded buckskinn'd men 

Bore him hard-hurried to the wave, 

Placed him swift in the boat; and then 

Swift pushing to the bristling sea, 

His daughter rush'd down suddenly, 

Threw him his bow, leapt from the shore 

Into the boat beside the brave, 

And sat her down and seized the oar, 

And never question'd, made replies. 

Or moved her lips, or raised her eyes. 

His breast was like a gate of brass, 
His brow was like a gather'd storm; 
There is no chisell'd stone that has 
So stately and complete a form, 
lu sinew, arm, and every part. 
In all the galleries of art. 

Gray, bronzed, and naked to the waist. 
He stood half halting in the prow. 
With quiver bare and idle bow. 
The warm sea fondled with the shore, 
And laid his white face to the sands. 
His daughter sat with her sad face 
Bent on the wave, with her two hands 
Held tightly to the dripping oar; 
And as she sat, her dimpled knee 
Bent lithe as wand or willow tree. 
So round and full, so rich and free, 
That no one would have ever known 
That it had either joint or bone. 

Her eyes were black, her face was brown. 
Her breasts were bare and there fell down 
Such wealth of hair, it almost hid 
The two, in its rich jetty fold — 
Which I had sometime fain forbid, 
They were so richer, fuller far 
Than any polish'd bronzes are. 
And richer hued than any gold. 
On her brown arms and her brown hands 
Were bars of gold and golden bands. 
Rough hammer'd from the virgin ore. 
So heavy, they could hold no more. 



I wonder now, I wonder 'd then, 
That men who fear'd not gods nor men 
Laid no rude hands at all on her, — 
I think she had a dagger slid 
Down in her silver'd wampum belt; 
It might have been, instead of hilt, 
A flashing diamond hurry-hid 
That I beheld — I could not know 
For certain, we did hasten so; 
And 1 know now less sure than then: 
Deeds strangle memories of deeds, 
Eed blossoms wither, choked with weeds. 
And years drown memories of men. 
Some things have happened since — and 

then 
This happen'd years and years ago. 

" Go, go!" the captain cried, and smote 
With sword and boot the swaying boat. 
Until it quiver'd as at sea 
And brought the old chief to his knee. 
He turn'd his face, and turning rose 
With hand raised fiercely to his foes: 
"Yes, I will go, last of my race. 
Push'd by you robbers ruthlessly 
Into the hollows of the sea. 
From this my last, last resting-place. 
Traditions of my fathers say 
A feeble few reach'd for this land, 
And we reach'd them a welcome hand 
Of old, upon another shore; 
Now they are strong, we weak as they. 
And they have driven us before 
Their faces, from that sea to this: 
Then marvel not if we have sped 
Sometime an arrow as we fled, 
So keener than a serpent's kiss." 

He turn'd a time unto the sun 
That lay half hidden in the sea, 
As in his hollows rock'd asleep. 
All trembled and breathed heavily; 
Then arch'd his arm, as you have done, 
For sharp masts piercing through the 

deep. 
No shore or kind ship met his eye. 
Or isle, or sail, or anything, 



THE LAST TASCHASTAS. 



35 



Save white sea gulls on dipping wing, 
And mobile sea and molten sky. 

"Farewell! — push seaward, child!" he 
cried, 
And quick the paddle-strokes replied. 
Like lightning from the panther-skin. 
That bound his loins round about 
He snatch'd a poison 'd arrow out, 
That like a snake lay hid within. 
And twang'd his bow. The captain fell 
Prone on his face, and such a yell 
Of triumph from that savage rose 
As man may never hear again. 
He stood as standing on the main, 
The topmast main, in proud repose, 
And shook his clench'd fist at his foes. 
And call'd, and cursed them every one. 
He heeded not the shouts and shot 
That foUow'd him, but grand and grim 
Stood up against the level sun; 
And, standing so, seem'd in his ire 
So grander than some ship on fire. 

And when the sun had left the sea. 
That laves Abrup, and Blanco laves, 



And left the land to death and me. 
The only thing that I could see 
Was, ever as the light boat lay 
High lifted on the white-back'd waves, 
A head as gray and toss'd as they. 

We raised the dead, and from his 

hands 
Pick'd out some shells, clutched as he 

lay 
And two by two bore him away. 
And wiped his lips of blood and sands. 

We bent and scooped a shallow home. 
And laid him warm-wet in his blood. 
Just as the lifted tide a-flood 
Came charging in with mouth a-foam: 
And as we turn'd, the sensate thing 
Beached up, lick'd out its foamy tongue, 
Lick'd out its tongue and tasted blood; 
The white lips to the red earth clung 
An instant, and then loosening 
All hold just like a living thing. 
Drew back sad-voiced and shuddering. 
All stained with blood, a striped flood. 



Tc'hastas; a name given to King John by the French, a corruption of chaste; for he was a pure, just man and 
a great warrior. He was king of the Rouge (Red) River Indians of Oregon, and his story is glorious with great 
deeds in defense of his people. When finally overpowered he and his son Moses were put on a ship at Port 
Orford and sent to Fort Alcatraz in the Golden Gate. In mid-ocean, these two Indians, in irons, rose up, and, 
after a bloody fight, took the ship. But one had lost a leg, the other an arm, and so they finally had to let loose 
the crew and soldiers tumbled into the hold and surrender themselves again; for the ship was driving helpless in a 
storm toward the rocks. The king died a prisoner, but his son escaped and never again surrendered. He lives 
alone near Yreka and is known as "Prince Peg-leg Moses." A daughter of the late Senator Nesmith sends me a 
picture, taken in 189G, of the king's devoted daughter. Princess Mary, who followed his fortunes in all his battles. 
She must be nearly one hundred years old. I remember her as an old woman full forty years ago, tall as a soldier, 
and most terrible in council. I have tried to picture her and her people as I once saw them in a midnight camp 
before the breaking out of the war; also their actions and utterances, so like some of the old Israelite councils and 
prophecies. This was the leading piece in my very first book, "Specimens," published in Oregon in 1867-8, if I 
remember rightly. 



36 



JOAQUIN MURIETTA. 



JOAQUIN MURIETTA. 

Glintings of day in the darkness, 
Flashings of flint and of steel, 

Blended in gossamer texture 
The ideal and the real, 

Limn'd like the phantom ship shadow. 
Crowding up under the keel. 



I stand beside the mobile sea, 
And sails are spread, and sails are furl'd; 
From farthest corners of the world. 
And fold like white wings wearily. 
Some ships go up, and some go down 
In haste, like traders in a town. 

Afar at sea some white ships flee. 
With arms stretch'd like a ghost's to me, 
And cloud-like sails are blown and curl'd, 
Then glide down to the under world. 
As if blown bare in winter blasts 
Of leaf and limb, tall naked masts 
Are rising from the restless sea. 
I seem to see them gleam and shine 
With clinging drops of dripping brine. 
Broad still brown wings flit here and there. 
Thin sea-blue wings wheel everywhere. 
And white wings v/histle thi-ough the air; 
I hear a thousand sea gulls call. 
And San Francisco Bay is white 
And blue with sail and sea and light. 
»«#»#* »« 

Behold the ocean on the beach 
Kneel lowly down as if in prayer, 
I hear a moan as of despair, 
While far at sea do toss and reach 
Some things so like white pleading hands. 
The ocean's thin and hoary hair 
Is trail'd along the silver'd sands. 
At every sigh and sounding moan. 
The ver}' birds shriek in distress 
And sound the ocean's monotone. 
'Tis not a place for mirthfulness, 
But meditation deep, and jorayer, 



And kneelings on the salted sod. 
Where man must own his littleness, 
And know the mightiness of God. 

Dared I but say a prophecy, 
As sang the holy men of old, 
Of rock-built cities yet to be 
Along these shining shores of gold, 
Crowding athirst into the sea. 
What wondrous marvels might be told! 
Enough, to know that empire here 
Shall burn her loftiest, brightest star; 
Here art and eloquence shall reign. 
As o'er the wolf-rear'd realm of old; 
Here learn'd and famous from afar, 
To pay their noble court, shall come, 
And shall not seek or see in vain. 
But look and look with wonder dumb> 

Afar the bright Sierras lie 
A swaying line of snowy white, 
A fringe of heaven hung in sight 
Against the blue base of the sky. 

I look along each gaping gorge, 
I hear a thousand soiindiug strokes 
Like giants rending giant oaks. 
Or brawny Vulcan at his forge; 
I see pickaxes flash and shine; 
Hear great wheels whirling in a mine. 
Here winds a thick and yellow thread, 
A moss'd and silver stream instead; 
And trout that leap'd its rippled tide 
Have turn'd upon their sides and died. 

Lo! when the last pick in the mine 
Lies rusting red with idleness, 



JOAQUIN MURIETTA. 



37 



Aud rot yon cabins in the mold, 
And wheels no more croak in distress, 
And tall pines reassert command, 
Sweet bards along this sunset shore 
Their mellow melodies will pour; 
Will charm as charmers very wise, 
Will strike the harp with master hand, 
Will sound unto the vaulted skies. 
The valor of these men of old — 
These mighty men of 'Forty-nine; 
Will sweetly sing and proudly say, 
Long, long agone there was a day 
When there were giants in the laud. 
* * » » * 

Now who rides rushing on the sight 
Hard down yon rocky long defile, 
Swift as an eagle in his flight. 
Fierce as a winter's storm at night 
Blown from the bleak Sierra's height! 
Sxich reckless rider!— I do ween 
No mortal man his like has seen. 
Aud yet, but for his long serape 
All flowing loose, and black as crape, 
And long silk locks of blackest hair 
All streaming wildly in the breeze. 
You might believe him in a chair, 
Or chatting at some country fair 
He rides so grandly at his ease. 

But now he grasps a tighter rein, 
A red rein wrought in golden chain, 
And in his tapidaros stands. 
Turns, shouts defiance at his foe. 
And now he calmly bares his brow 
As if to challenge fate, aud now 
His hand drops to his saddle-bow 
And clutches something gleaming there 
As if to something more than dare. 

The stray winds lift the raven curls. 
Soft as a fair Castilian girl's. 
And bare a brow so manly, high. 
Its every feature does belie 
The thought he is compell'd to fly; 
A brow as open as the sky 
On which you gaze aud gaze again 



As on a picture you have seen 
And often sought to see iu vain, 
A brow of blended pride aud pain, 
That seems to hold a tale of woe 
Or wonder, that you fain would know 
A boy's brow, cut as with a knife. 
With many a dubious deed iu life. 

Again he grasps his glitt'riug rein, 
And, wheeling like a hurricane. 
Defying wood, or stone, or flood. 
Is dashing down the gorge again. 
Oh, never yet has prouder steed 
Borne master nobler in his need! 
There is a glory iu his eye 
That seems to dare aud to defy 
Pursiiit, or time, or space, or race. 
His body is the type of speed, 
While fiom his nostril to his heel 
Are muscles as if made of steel. 

What crimes have made that red hand 
red? 
What wrongs have written that young face 
With lines of thought so out of place? 
Where flies he? And from whence has 

fled? 
And what his lineage and race? 
What glitters in his heavy belt, 
Aud from his furr'd cautenas gleam? 
What on his bosom that doth seem 
A diamond bright or dagger's hilt? 
The iron hoofs that still resound 
Like thunder from the yielding ground 
Alone reply; and now the plain, 
Quick as you breathe and gaze again, 

Is won, and all pursuit is vain. 

♦ » » « « 

I stand upon a mountain rim. 
Stone-paved and pattern'd as a street; 
A rock-lipp'd canon plunging south. 
As if it were earth's opeu'd mouth. 
Yawns deep and darkling at my feet; 
So deep, so distant, and so dim 
Its waters wind, a yellow thread, 
And call so faintly and so far, 
I turn aside my swooning head. 



38 



JOAQUIN MURIETTA. 



I feel a fierce impulse to leap 
Adown the beetling precipice, 
Like some lone, lost, uncertain star; 
To plunge into a place unknown, 
And win a world, all, all my own; 
Or if I might not meet that bliss. 
At least escape the curse of this. 

I gaze again. A gleaming star 
Shines back as from some mossy well 
Eeflected from blue fields afar. 
Brown hawks are wheeling here and there. 
And up and down the broken wall 
Clings clumps of dark green chapparal, 
While from the rent rocks, grey and 

bare; 
Blue junipers hang in the air. 

Here, cedars sweep the stream and here, 
Among the boulders moss'd and browu 
That time and storms have toppled down 
From towers undefiled by man. 
Low cabins nestle as in fear. 
And look no taller than a span. 
From low and shapeless chimneys rise 
Some tall straight columns of blue smoke, 
And weld them to the bhier skies; 
While sounding down the somber gorge 
I hear the steady pickax stroke. 
As if upon a flashing forge. 

» » • • « 

Another scene, another sound! — 
Sharp shots are fretting through the air, 
Red knives are flashing everywhere. 
And here and there the yellow flood 
Is purpled with warm smoking blood. 
The brown hawk swoops low to the 

ground. 
And nimble chipmunks, small and still, 
Dart striped lines afcross the sill 
That manly feet shall press no more. 
The flume lies warping in the sun, 
The pan sits empty by the door, 
The pickax on its bedrock floor. 
Lies rusting in the silent mine. 
There comes no single sound nor sign 



Of life, beside yon monks in brown 
That dart their dim shapes up and down 
The rocks that swelter in the sun; 
But dashing down yon rocky spur. 
Where scarce a hawk woiild dare to 

whirr, 
A horseman holds his reckless flight. 
He wears a flowing black capote, 
While over all do flow and float 
Long locks of hair as dark as night, 
And hands are red that erst were white. 

All up and down the land to-day 
Black desolation and despair 
It seems have set and settled there. 
With none to frighten them away. 
Like sentries watching by the way 
Black chimneys topple in the air. 
And seem to say, Go back, beware! 
While up around the mountain's rim 
Are clouds of smoke, so still and grim 
They look as they are fasten'd there. 

A lonely stillness, so like death. 
So touches, terrifies all things. 
That even rooks that fly o'erhead 
Are hush'd, and seem to hold their 

breath. 
To fly with muffled wings. 
And heavy as if made of lead. 
Some skulls that crumble to the touch. 
Some joints of thin and chalk-like bone, 
A tall black chimney, all alone, 
That leans as if upon a crutch. 
Alone are left to mark or tell. 
Instead of cross or cryptic stone. 
Where Joaquin stood and brave men 
fell. 

The sun is red and flush'd and dry. 
And fretted from his weary beat 
Across the hot and desert sky. 
And swollen as from overheat. 
And failing too; for see, he sinks 
Swift as a ball of burnish'd ore: 
It may be fancy, but methinks 
He never fell so fast before. 



JOAQUIN MURIETTA. 



39 



I hear the ueighing of hot steeds, 
I see the marshaling of men 
That silent move among the trees 
As busily as swarming bees 
With step and stealthiness profound, 
On carpetings of spindled weeds, 
Without a syllable or soimd 
Save clashing of their burnish'd arms. 
Clinking dull, deathlike alarms — 
Grim bearded men and brawny men 
That grope among the ghostly trees. 
Were ever silent men as these? 
Was ever somber forest deep 
And dark as this ? Here one might sleep 
While all the weary years went round. 
Nor wake nor weep for sun or sound. 

A stone's throw to the right, a rock 
Has rear'd his head among the stars — 
An island in the upper deep — 
And on his front a thousand scars 
Of thunder's crash aud earthquake's shock 
Are seam'd as if by sabre's sweep 
Of gods, enraged thit he should rear 
His front amid their realms of air. 

What moves along his beetling brow. 
So small, so indistinct and far. 
This side you blazing evening star. 
Seen through that redwood's shifting 

bough? 
A lookout on the world below? 
A watcher for the friend — or foe? 
This still troops sentry it must be, 
Yet seems no taller than my knee. 

But for the grandeur of this gloom. 
And for the chafing steeds' alarms, 
And brown men's sullen clash of arms. 
This were but as a living tomb. 
These weeds are spindled, i^ale and white. 
As if nor sunshine, life, nor light 
Had ever reach'd this forest's heart. 
Above, the redwood boughs entwine 
As dense as copse of tangled vine — 
Above, so fearfully afar. 
It seems as 'twere a lesser sky. 



A sky without a moon or star. 

The moss'd boughs are so thick and high. 

At every lisp of leaf I start! 

Would I could hear a cricket trill. 

Or hear yon sentry from his hill. 

The place does seem so deathly still. 

But see a sudden lifted hand 

From one who still and sullen stands. 

With black serape and bloody hands. 

And coldly gives his brief command. 

They mount — away! Quick on his heel 
He turns and grasps his gleaming steel — 
Then sadly smiles, and stoops to kiss 
An upturn'd face so sweetly fair, 
So sadly, saintly, purely rare. 
So rich of blessedness and bliss! 
I know she is not flesh and blood. 
But some sweet spirit of this wood; 
I know it by her wealth of hair. 
And step on the unyielding air; 
Her seamless robe of shining white. 
Her soul-deep eyes of darkest night; 
But over all and more than all 
That can be said or can befall. 
That tongue can tell or pen can trace. 
That wonderous witchery of face. 

Between the trees I see him stride 
To where a red steed fretting stands 
Impatient for his lord's commands: 
And she glides noiseless at his side. 

One hand toys with her waving hair. 
Soft lifting from her shoulders bare; 
The other holds theloosen'd rein. 
And rests upon the swelling mane 
That curls the curved neck o'er and o'en 
Like waves that swirl along the shore 
He hears the last retreating sound 
Of iron on volcanic stone. 
That echoes far from peak to plain, 
And 'neath the dense wood's sable zone, 
He peers the dark Sierras down. 

His hand forsakes her raven hair. 
His eyes have an unearthly glare; 



i 



40 



JOAQUIN MURIETTAo 



She shrinks and shndders at his side 

Then lifts to his her moisten'd eyes, 

And only looks her sad replies. 

A suUenness his soul enthralls, 

A silence born of hate and pride; 

His fierce volcanic heart so deep 

Is stirr'd, his teeth, despite his will, 

Do chatter as if in a chill; 

His very dagger at his side 

Does shake and rattle in its sheath. 

As blades of brown grass in a gale 

Do rustle on the frosted heath: 

And yet he does not bend or weep. 

But sudden mounts, then leans him o'er 

To breathe her hot breath but once 

more. 
I do not mark the prison'd sighs, 
I do not meet the moisten'd eyes. 
The while he leans him from his place 
Down to her sweet uplifted face. 

A low sweet melody is heard 
Like cooing of some Balize bird, 
So fine it does not touch the air, 
So faint it stirs not anywhere; 
Faint as the falling of the dew. 
Low as a pure unutter'd prayer. 
The meeting, mingling, as it were, 
In that one long, last, silent kiss 
Of souls in paradisal bliss. 



" You must not, shall not, shall not 
go! 
To die and leave me here to die! 
Enough of vengeance. Love and I? 
I die for home and — Mexico." 

He leans, he plucks her to his breast. 
As plucking Mariposa's flower. 
And now she crouches in her rest 
As resting in some rosy bower. 

Erect, again he grasps the rein! 
I see his black steed plunge and poise 
And beat the air with iron feet. 
And curve his noble glossy neck. 
And toss on high his swelling mane, 
And leap — away! he spurns the rein! 
He flies so fearfully and fleet. 
But for the hot hoofs' ringing noise 
'Twould seem as if he were on wings. 

And they are gone! Gone like 
breath. 
Gone like a white sail seen at night 
A moment, and then lost to sight; 
Gone like a star you look upon. 
That glimmers to a bead, a speck. 
Then softly melts into the dawn. 
And all is still and dark as death. 
And who shall sing, for who may know 
That mad, glad ride to Mexico? 



The third poem in my first London book, i! I remember— you see I never kept my books about me, nor in- 
deed any books now, and have for present use only a copy that has been many times revised and cut down- 
was called "California," but it was called "Joaquin ' in the Oregon book. And it was from this that I was, in 
derision, called " Joaquin." I kept the name and the poem too, till both were at least respected. But my 
brother, who had better judgment and finer taste than I, thought it too wild and bloody; and so by degrees it 
has been allowed to almost entirely disappear, except this fragment, although a small book of itself, to begin 
with. 



INA. 



41 



INA. 

Sad song of the loind in the mountains 
And the sea wave of grass on the plain, 
That breaks in bloom foam by the fountains. 
And forests^, that breaketh again 
On the mountains, as breaketh a main. 

Bold thoughts that were strong as the grizzlies. 
Now weak in their priso7i of words ; 
Bright fancies that flashed like the glaciers, 
Now dimm'd like the luster of birds, 
And butterflies huddled as herds. 

Sad symphony, wild, and unmeasured. 
Weed warp, and woof woven in strouds 
Strange truths that a stray soul had treasured. 
Truths seen as through folding of shrouds 
Or as stars through the rolling of clouds. 



Scene I. 

A Hacienda near Tezcuco, Mexico. Young 
Don Carlos alone, looking out on the 
moonlit mountain. 

Don Carlos. 
Popocatapetl looms lone like au island, 
Above white-cloud waves that break up 

against hira; 
Around him white buttes in the moonlight 

are flashing 
Like silver tents pitch'd in the fair fields 

of heaven 
While standing in line, in their snows 

everlasting, 
Flash peaks, as my eyes into heaven are 

lifted, 
Like mile-stones that lead to the city 

Eternal. 

Ofttime when the sun and the sea lay 
together, 
Red-welded as one, in their red bed of 
lovers. 



Embracing and blushing like loves newly 

wedded, 
I have trod on the trailing crape fringes of 

twilight, 
And stood there and listen'd, and lean'd 

with lips parted. 
Till lordly peaks wrapp'd them, as chill 

night blew over, 
In great cloaks of sable, like proud somber 

Spaniards, 
And stalk'd from my presence down night's 

corridors. 



When the red-curtained West has bent 

red as with weeping 
Low over the couch where the prone day 

lay dying, 
I have stood with brow lifted, confronting 

the mountains 
That held their white faces of snow in the 

heavens. 
And said, "It is theirs to array them so 

purely, 



42 



INA. 



Because of their nearness to the temple 

eternal;" 
And childlike have said, "They are fair 

resting places 
For the dear weary dead on their way np 

to heaven." 

But my soul is not with you to-night, 

mighty mountains: 
It is held to the levels of earth by an angel 
Far more than a star, earth fallen or un- 

fall'n, 
Tet fierce in her follies and headstrong 

and stronger 
Than streams of the sea running in with 

the billows. 

Very well. Let him woo, let him thrust 

his white whiskers 
And lips pale and purple with death, in 

between us; 
Let her wed, as she wUls, for the gold of 

the gray beard. 
I will set my face for you, O mountains, 

my brothers. 
For I yet have my honor, my conscience 

and freedom, 
My fleet-footed mustang, and pistols rich 

silver'd; 
I will turn as the earth turns her back on 

the sun. 
But return to the light of her eyes never 

more, 
While noons have a night and white seas 

have a shore. 

Ina, approaching. 

Ina. 

" I have come, dear Don Carlos, to say you 

farewell, 
I shall wed with Don Castro at dawn of 

to-morrow, 
And be all his own — firm, honest and 

faithful. 
I have promised this thing; that I will 

keep my promise 



You who do know me care never to ques- 
tion. 
I have mastered myself to say this thing 

to you; 
Hear me: be strong, then, and say adieu 

bravely; 
The world is his own who will brave its 

bleak hours. 
Dare, then, to confront the cold days in 

their column; 
As they march down upon you, stand, 

hew them to pieces. 
One after another, as you would a fierce 

foeman. 
Till not one abideth between two true 

bosoms." 
[Don Carlos, with a laugh of scorn, flies 

from the veranda, mounts horse, and 

disappears.'\ 

Ina (looking out into the night, after a long 
silence). 

How doleful the night hawk screams in 
the heavens. 

How dismally gibbers the gray coyote! 

Afar to the south now the turbulent thun- 
der. 

Mine equal, my brother, my soul's one 
companion. 

Talks low in his sleep, like a giant deep 
troubled; 

Talks fierce in accord with my own stormy 
spirit. 

Scene II. 
Sunset on a spur oj Mount Hood. Lamonte 
contemplates the scene. 
Lamonte. 
A flushed and weary messenger a- west 
Is standing at the half-closed door of day. 
As he would say. Good night; and now his 

bright 
Red cap he tips to me and turns his face. 
Were it an unholy thing to say, an angel 

now 
Beside the door stood with uplifted seal? 



IN A. 



43 



Behold the door seal'd with that blood red 

seal 
Now burning, spreading o'er the mighty 

West. 
Never again shall that dead day arise 
Therefrom, but must be boru and come 

anew. 

The tawny, solemn Night, child of the 

East, 
Her mournful robe trails o'er the distant 

woods. 
And comes this way with firm and stately 

step. 
Afront, and very high, she wears a 

shield, 
A plate of silver, and upon her brow 
The radiant Venus burns, a pretty lamp. 
Behold! how in her gorgeous flow of hair 
Do gleam a million mellow yellow gems, 
That spill their molten gold upon the 

dewy grass. 
Now throned on boundless plains, and 

gazing down 
So calmly on the red-seal'd tomb of 

day, 
She rests her form against the Kocky 

Mountains, 
And rules with silent power a peaceful 

world. 

'Tis midnight now. The bent and broken 

moon. 
All batter'd, black, as from a thousand 

battles, 
Hangs silent on the purple walls of heaven. 
The angel warrior, guard of the gates 

eternal. 
In battle-harness girt, sleeps on the field: 
But when to-morrow comes, when wicked 

men 
That fret the patient earth are all astir. 
He will resume his shield, and, facing 

earthward, 
The gates of heaven guard from sins of 

earth. 



'Tis morn. Behold the kingly day now 

leaps 
The eastern wall of earth, bright sword 

in hand, 
And clad in flowing robe of mellow light. 
Like to a king that has regain'd his throne. 
He warms his drooping subjects into joy. 
That rise renewed to do him fealty, 
And rules with pomp the universal world. 

Don Carlos ascends the mountain, gesticu- 
lating and talking to himself. 
Don Carlos. 
Oh, for a name that black-eyed maids 
would sigh 
And lean with parted lips at mention of; 
That I should seem so tall in minds of men 
That I might walk beneath the arch of 

heaven. 
And pluck the ripe red stars as I pass'd on, 
As favor'd guests do pluck the purple 

grapes 
That hang above the humble entrance way 
Of palm-thatch'd mountain inn of Mexico. 

Oh, I would give the green leaves of my 
life 

For something grand, for real and un- 
dream 'd deeds! 

To wear a n>antle, broad and richly 
gemm'd 

As purple heaven fringed with gold at 
sunset; 

To wear a crown as dazzling as the sun, 

And, holding up a scepter lightning- 
charged, 

Stride out among the stars as I once strode 

A barefoot boy among the buttercups. 

Alas! I am so restless. There is that 
Within me doth rebel and rise against 
The all I am and half I see in others; 
And were't not for contempt of coward act 
Of flying all defeated from the world. 
As if I feared and dared not face its ills, 
I should ere this have known, known 
more or less 



44 



INA. 



Than any flesh that frets this sullen earth. 
I know not where such thoughts will lead 

me to: 
I have had fear that they would drive me 

mad, 
And then have flattered my weak self, and 

said 
The soul's outgrown the body — yea, the 

soul 
Aspires to the stars, and in its striiggles 

xipward 
Make the dull flesh quiver as an aspen. 

Lamonte. 
What waif is this cast here upon my 
shore. 
From seas of subtle and most selfish men? 

Don Carlos. 
Of subtle and most selfish men! — ah, 

that's the term! 
And if you be bi;t earnest in your spleen, 
And other sex across man's shoulders lash, 
I'll stand beside you on this crag and 

howl 
And hurl my clenched fists down upon 

their heads. 
Till I am hoarse as yonder cataract. 

Lamonte. 

Why, no, my friend, I'll not consent to 
that. 
No true man yet has ever woman cursed. 
And I — I do not hate my fellow man, 
For man by nature bears within himself 
Nobility that makes him half a god; 
But as in somewise he hath made him- 
self. 
His universal thirst for gold and pomp, 
And piirchased fleeting fame and bubble 

honors. 
Forgetting good, so mocking helpless 

age. 
And rushing roughshod o'er lowly merit, 
I hold him but a sorry worm indeed; 
And so have turn'd me quietly aside 
To know the majesty of peaceful woods. 



Don Carlos {as if alone). 
The fabled font of youth led many fools, 

Zealous in its pursuit, to hapless death; 

And yet this thirst for fame, this hot am- 
bition. 

This soft-toned syren-tongue, enchanting 
Fame, 

Doth lead me headlong on to equal folly, 

Like to a wild bird charm'd by shining 
coils 

And swift mesmeric glance of deadly 
snake: 

I would not break the charm, but win a 
world 

Or die with curses blistering my lips. 

LAxMONTE. 

Give up ambition, petty pride — 
By pride the angels fell, 

Don Carlos. 
By pride they reached a place from 
whence to fall. 

Lamonte. 
You startle me! I am unused to hear 

Men talk these fierce and bitter thoiights; 
and yet 

In closed recesses of my soul was once 

A dark and gloomy chamber where they 
dwelt. 

Give up ambition — yea, crush such 
thoughts 

As you would crush from hearth a scor- 
pion brood; 

For, mark me well, they'll get the mas- 
tery. 

And drive you on to death — or worse, 
across 

A thousand riiin'd homes and broken 
hearts. 

Don Carlos. 
Give up ambition! Oh, rather than to 
die 

And glide a lonely, nameless, shivering 
ghost 



INA. 



45 



Down time's dark tide of utter nothing- 
ness, 

I'd write a name in blood and orphans' 
tears. 

The temple-burner wiser was than kings. 

Lamonte. 
And would you dare the curse of man 
and — 

Don Carlos. 

Dare the cuise of man! 
I'd dare the fearful curse of God! 
I'd build a pyramid of whitest skulls, 
And step therefrom unto the spotted 

moon, 
And thence to stars, and thence to central 

suns. 
Then with one grand and mighty leap 

would laud 
Unhinder'd on the shining shore of heaven, 
And, sword in hand, unbared and un- 

abash'd. 
Would stand bold forth in presence of the 

God 
Of gods, and on the jewel'd inner side 
The walls of heaven, carve with keen 

Damascus steel, 
And, highest up, a grand and titled name 
That time nor tide could touch or tarnish 

ever. 

Lamonte. 

Seek not to crop above the heads of men 
To be a better mark for envy's shafts. 
Come to my peaceful home, and leave be- 
hind 
These stormy thoughts and daring aspira- 
tions. 
All earthly power is but a thing compara- 
tive. 
Is not a petty chief of some lone isle, 
"With half a dozen nude and starving sub- 
jects. 
As much a king as he the Czar of Eusk ? 
In yonder sweet retreat and balmy place 
I'll abdicate, and you be chief indeed. 



There you will reign and tell me of the 

world. 
Its life and lights, its sins and sickly 

shadows. 
The pheasant will reveille beat at morn, 
And rouse us to the battle of the day. 
My swarthy subjects will in circle sit. 
And, gazing on your noble presence, deem 
You great indeed, and call you chief of 

chiefs; 
And, knowing no one greater than yourself 
In all the leafy borders of your realm, 
'Gainst what can pride or poor ambition 

chafe ? 

'Twill be a kingdom without king, save 
you. 
More broad than that the cruel Cortes won, 
With subjects truer than he ever knew, 
That know no law but only nature's law. 
And no religion know but that of love. 
There truth and beauty are, for there is 

Nature, 
Serene and simple. She will be our priest- 
ess. 
And in her calm and uncomplaining face 
We two will read her rubric and be wise. 

Don Carlos. 

Why, truly now, this fierce and broken 

land. 
Seen through your eyes, assumes a fairer 

shape. 
Lead up, for you are nearer God than I. 

Scene III. 

Ina, in black, alone. Midnight. 

Ina. 

I weep? I weep? I laugh to think of it! 
I lift my dark brow to the breath of the 

ocean. 
Soft kissing me now like the li^js of my 

mother. 
And laugh low and long as I crush the 

brown grasses, 



46 



IN A. 



To think I should weep! Why, I never 
wept — never, 

Not even in punishments dealt me in 
childhood! 

Yea, all of my wrongs and my bitterness 
buried 

In my brave baby heart, all alone and un- 
friended. 

And 1 pitied, with proud and disdain full- 
est pity, 

The weak who would weep, and I laugh'd 
at the folly 

Of those who could laugh and make men-y 
with playthings. 

Nay, I will not weep now over that I 
desired. 

Desired? Yes: I to myself dare confess it, 

Ah, too, to the world should it question too 
closely. 

And bathe me and sport in a deep sea of 
candor. 
Let the world be deceived; it insists 
upon it: 

Let it bundle me round in its black woe- 
garments; 

But I, self with self— my free soul fear- 
less — 

Am frank as the sun, nor the toss of a 
copper 

Care I if the world call it good or evil. 

I am glad to-night, and in new-born free- 
dom 

Forget all earth with my old companions, — 

The moon and the stars and the moon-clad 
ocean. 

I am face to face with the stars that know 
me, 

And gaze as I gazed in the eyes of my 
mother. 

Forgetting the city and the coarse things 
in it; 

For there's naught but God in the shape 
of mortal, 

Save one— my wandering, wild boy-lover — 

That I esteem worth a stale banana. 



The hair hangs heavy and is warm on 
my shoulder. 

And is thick with odors of balm and of 
blossom. 

The great bay sleeps with the ships on her 
bosom; 

Through the Golden Gate, to the left hand 
yonder. 

The white sea lies in a deep sleep, breath- 
ing. 

The father of melody, mother of measure. 

Scene IV 

A wood by a rivulet on a spur of Mount 
Hood, overlooking the Columbia. La- 
MONTE and Don Carlos, on their way to 
the camp, are reposing under the shadoio 
of the forest. Some deer are observed 
descending to the brook, and Don Caelos 
seizes his rifle. 

La MONTE. 

Nay, nay, my friend, strike not from your 

covert. 
Strike like a serpent in the grass well 

hidden? 
What, steal into their homes, and, when 

they, thirsting, 
And all unsuspecting, come down in 

couples 
And dip brown muzzles in the mossy 

brink. 
Then shoot them down without chance to 

fly- 
The only means that God has given them. 
Poor, unarm'd mutes, to baffle man'a 

cunning? 
Ah, now I see you had not thought of this! 
The hare is fleet, and is most quick at 

sound. 
His coat is changed with the changing 

fields; 
Yon deer turn brown when the leaves turn 

brown; 
The dog has teeth, the cat has talons, 
And man has craft and sinewy arms; 



INA. 



47 



All things that live have some means of 

defense 
All, all — save only fair lovely woman. 

Don Carlos. 

Nay, she has her tongue; is armed to 
the teeth. 

Lamontk. 

Thou Timon, what can 'scape your bit- 
terness? 
But for this sweet content of Nature 

here, 
Upon whose breast we now recline and 

rest, 
Why, you might lift your voice and rail at 
her! 

Don Carlos. 

Oh, I am out of patience with your 

faith! 
What! She content and peaceful, uncom- 
plaining? 
I've seen her fretted like a lion caged. 
Chafe like a peevish woman cross'd and 

churl'd, 
Tramping and foaming like a whelpless 

bear; 
Have seen her weep till earth was wet with 

tears. 
Then turn all smiles — a jade that won her 

point? 
Have seen her tear the hoary hair of 

ocean. 
While he, himself full half a world, would 

moan 
And roll and toss his clumsy hands all 

day 
To earth like some great helpless babe, 
Kude-rock'd and cradled by an unkind 

nurse. 
Then stain her snowy hem with salt-sea 

tears; 
And when the peaceful, mellow moon 

came forth. 
To walk and meditate among the blooms 



That make so blest the upper purple fields. 
This wroth dyspeptic sea ran after her 
With all his soul, as if to pour himself, 
All sick and helpless, in her snowy lap. 
Content! Oh, she has crack'd the ribs of 

earth 
And made her shake poor trembling man 

from off 
Her back, e'en as a grizzly shakes the 

hounds; 
She has upheaved her rocky spine against 
The flowing robes of the eternal God. 

Lamonte. 
There once was one of nature like to 

this: 
He stood a barehead boy upon a cliff 
Pine-crown'd, that hung high oer a bleak 

north sea 
His long hair etream'd and flashed like 

yellow silk. 
His sea-blue eyes lay deep and still as 

lakes 
O'erhung by mountains arch'd in virgin 

snow; 
And far astray, and friendless and alone, 
A tropic bird blown through the north 

frost wind. 
He stood above the sea in the cold white 

moon, 
His thin face lifted to the flashing stars. 
He talk'd familiarly and face to face 
With the eternal God, in solemn night. 
Confronting Him with free and flippant 

air 
As one confronts a merchant o'er his 

counter. 
And in vehement blasphemy did say: 
"God, put aside this world — show me 

another! 
God, this world's but a cheat — hand down 

another! 
I will not buy — not have it as a gift. 
Put this aside and hand me down an- 
other — 
Another, and another, stiU another, 



48 



IN A. 



Till I have tried the fairest world that 

hangs 
Upon the walls and broad dome of your 

shop. 
For I am proud of soul and regal born, 
And will not have a cheap and cheating 

world." 

Don Carlos. 
The noble youth! So God gave him 

another? 

Lamonte. 
A bear, as in old time, came from the 

woods 
And tare him there upon that storm-swept 

cliff— 
A grim and grizzled bear, like unto 

hunger. 
A tall ship sail'd adown the sea next 

morn, 
And, standing with his glass upon the 

prow. 
The captain saw a vulture on a cliff, 
Gorging, and pecking, stretching his long 

neck 
Bracing his raven plumes against the 

wind, 
Fretting the tempest with his sable 

feathers. 

A Young Poet ascends the mountain and 
approaches. 

Don Carlos. 
Ho! ho! whom have we here? Talk of 
the devil, 
And he's at hand. Say, who are you, 
and whence? 

Poet. 
I am a poet, and dwell down by the sea. 

Don Carlos. 
A poet! a poet, forsooth! A hungry 
fool! 
Would you know what it means to be a 
poet now ? 



It is to want a friend, to want a home, 
A country, money, — ay, to want a meal. 
It is not wise to be a poet now. 
For, oh, the world it has so modest 

grown 
It will not praise a poet to his face. 
But waits till he is dead some hundred 

years, 
Then uprears marbles cold and stupid as 

itself. [Poet rises to go.\ 

Don Carlos. 
"Why, what's the haste? You'll reach 

there soon enough. 

Poet. 
Reach where? 

Don Carlos. 
The inn to which all earthly roads do 
tend: 
The "neat apartments furnish'd — see 

within;" 
The " furnish'd rooms for quiet, single 

gentlemen;" 
The narrow six-by-two where you will 

lie 
With cold blue nose up-pointing to the 

grass, 
Labell'd and box'd, and ready all for 
shipment. 

Poet (loosening hair and letting fall a 
mantle.) 
Ah me! my Don Carlos, look kindly 
upon me! 
With my hand on your arm and my dark 

brow lifted 
Full level to yours, do yon not now know 

me? 
'Tis I, your Ina, whom you loved by the 

ocean, 
In the warm-spiced winds from the far 
Cathay. 

Don Carlos {bitterly). 
With the smell of the dead man still 
upon you! 



INA. 



49 



Your dark hair wet from his death-damp 
forehead! 

You are not my lua, for she is a mem- 
ory. 

A marble chisell'd, in my heart's dark 
chamber 

Set up for ever, and naught can change 
her; 

And you are a stranger, and the gulf 
between us 

Is wide as the plains, and as deep as 
Pacific. 

And now, good night. In your serape 
folded 

Hard by in the light of the pine-knot 
fire, 

Sleep you as sound as you will be wel- 
come; 

And on the morrow — now mark me, 
madam — 

When to-morrow comes, why, you will 
turn you 

To the right or left as did Father Abram. 

Good night, for ever and for aye, good 
by; 

My bitter is sweet and your truth is a lie. 

I.VA (letting go his arm and stepping hack). 
Well, then! 'tis over, and 'tis well thus 
ended; 

I am well escaped from my life's devo- 
tion. 

The waters of bliss are a waste of bitter- 
ness; 



The day of joy I did join hands over, 
As a bow of promise when my years were 

weary, 
And set high up as a brazen serpent 
To look upon when I else had fainted 
In burning deserts, while yoii sipp'd ices 
And snowy sherbets, and roam'd unfet- 

ter'd, 
Is a deadly asp in the fruit and flowers 
That 3'ou in your bitterness now bear to 

me; 
But its fangs unfasten and it glides down 

from me. 
From a Cleopatra of cold white marble. 

I have but done what I would do over, 
Did I find one worthy of so much devo- 
tion; 
And, standing here with my clean hands 

folded 
Above a bosom whose crime is courage, 
The only regret that my heart discovers 
Is that I should do and have dared so 

greatly 
For the love of one who deserved so little. 

Nay! say no more, nor attempt to ap- 
proach me! 

This ten feet line lying now between us 

Shall never be less while the land has 
measure. 

See! night is forgetting the east in the 
heavens; 

The birds pipe shrill and the beasts howl 
answer. 



50 



EVEN SO. 



EVEN SO. 



Sierras, and eternal tents 
Of snow that flash o^er battlements 
Of mountains ! My land of the sun, 
Am I not true ? have I not done 
AH things for thine, for thee alone, 
sun-land, sea-land, thou mine own? 
Be my reward some little j)lace 
To i)itch my tent, some tree and vine 
Where I may sit loith lifted face. 
And drink the sun as drinking tvine: 
Where sweeps the Oregon, and where 
White storms caroused on perfumed air. 



In the shadows a-west of the sunset 
mountains, 

Where old-time giants had dwelt and 
peopled, 

And built up cities and castled battle- 
ments, 

And rear'd up pillars that pierced the 
heavens, 

A poet dwelt, of the book of Nature— 

An ardent lover of the pure and beautiful, 

Devoutest lover of the true and beautiful. 

Profoundest lover of the grand and beau- 
tiful— 

With heart all impulse, and intensest pas- 
sion. 

Who believed in love as in God eternal— 

A dream while the waken'd world went 
over. 

An Indian summer of the singing seasons; 

And he sang wild songs like the wind in 
cedars, 

Was tempest-toss'd as the pines, yet ever 

As fix'd in faith as they in the moun- 
tains. 

He had heard a name as one hears of a 
princess. 
Her glory had come vinto him in stories; 



From afar he had look'd as entranced upon 

her; 
He gave her name to the wind in meas- 
ures. 
And he heard her name in the deep-voiced 

cedars. 
And afar in the winds rolling on like the 

billows, 
Her name in the name of another for 

ever 
Gave all his numbers their grandest 

strophes; 
Enshrined her image in his heart's high 

temple, 
And saint-like held her, too sacred for 

mortal. 



He came to fall like a king of the forest 
Caught in the strong storm arms of the 

wrestler; 
Forgetting his songs, his crags and his 

mountains. 
And nearly his God, in his wild deep 

passion; 
And when he had won her and turn'd 

him homeward. 



EVEN SO. 



SI 



With the holiest pledges love gives its 

lover, 
The mountain route was as strewn with 

roses. 

Can high love then be a thing unholy, 

To make us better and bless'd supremely? 

The daj' was fix'd for the feast and nup- 
tials; 

He crazed with impatience at the tardy 
hours; 

He flew in the face of old Time as a tyrant; 

He had fought the days that stood still 
between them. 

Fought one by one, as you fight with a 
foeman, 

Had they been animate and sensate beings. 

At last then the hour came coldly for- 
ward. 

When Mars was trailing his lance on the 
mountains 

He rein'd his steed and look'd down in 
the canon 

To where she dwelt, with a heart of fire. 

He kiss'd his hand to the smoke slow 
curling. 

Then bow'd his head in devoutest blessing. 

His spotted courser did plunge and fret 
him 

Beneath his gay silken-fringed carona 

And toss his neck in a black-mane ban- 
ner 'd; 

Then all afoam, plunging iron-footed, 

Dash'd him down with a wild impatience. 

A coldness met him, like the breath of 

a cavern, 
As he joyously hasten'd across the 

threshold. 
She came, and coldly she spoke and 

scornful, 
In answer to warm and impulsive passion. 
All things did array them in shapes most 

hateful. 
And life did seem but a jest intolerable. 



He dared to question her why this 
estrangement: 

She spoke with a strange and stiff indif- 
ference, 

And bade him go on all alone life's journey. 

Then stern and tall he did stand up 

before her, 
And gaze dark-brow'd through the low 

narrow casement. 
For a time, as if warring in thought with 

a passion; 
Then, crushing hard down the hot welling 

bitterness. 
He folded his form in a sullen silentness 
And turned for ever away from her pres- 
ence; 
Bearing his sorrow like some great burden, 
Like a black nightmare in his hot heart 

muffled; 
With his faith in the truth of woman 

broken. 

'Mid Theban pillars, where sang the 

Pindar, 
Breathing the breath of the Grecian 

islands, 
Breathing in spices and olive and myrtle, 
Counting the caravans, curl'd and snowy, 
Slow journeying over his head to Mecca 
Or the high Christ land of most holy 

memory. 
Counting the clouds through the boughs 

above him. 
That brush'd white marbles that time had 

chisel'd 
And rear'd as tombs on the great dead city, 
Letter'd with solemn but unread moral — 
A poet rested in the red-hot summer. 
He took no note of the things about him, 
Butdream'dand counted the clouds above 

him; 
His soul was troubled, and his sad heart's 

Mecca 
Was a miner's home far over the ocean, 
Banner'd by pines that did brush blue 

heaven. 



52 



EVEN SO. 



When the sun went down on the bronzed 
Morea, 

He read to himself from the lines of sor- 
row 

That came as a wail from the one he 
worshipp'd, 

Sent over the seas by an old companion: 

They spoke no word of him, or remem- 
brance. 

And he was most sad, for he felt forgotten, 

And said: "In the leaves of her fair 
heart's album 

She has cover'd my face with the face of 
another. 

Let the great sea lift like a wall between 
us, 

High-back'd, with his mane of white 
storms for ever — 

I shall learu to love, I shall wed my 
sorrow, 

I shall take as a spouse the days that are 
perish'd; 

I shall dwell in a land where the march of 
genius 

Made tracks in marble in the days of 
giants; 

I shall sit in the ruins where sat the 
Marius, 

Gray with the ghosts of the great de- 
parted." 

And then he said m the solemn twi- 
light . . . 

"Strangely wooing are yon worlds 

above us, 

Strangely beautiful is the Faith of Islam, 

Strangely sweet are the songs of Solomon, 

Strangely tender are the teachings of 

Jesus, 
Strangely cold is the sun on the moun- 
tains, 
Strangely mellow is the moon on old 

ruins, 
Strangely pleasant are the stolen waters. 
Strangely lighted is the North night re- 
gion, 



Strangely strong are the streams in the 

ocean. 
Strangely true are the tales of the Orient, 
But stranger than all are the ways of 

women." 

His head on his hands and his hands on 

the marble, 
Alone in the midnight he slept in the 

ruins; 
And a form was before him white mantled 

in moonlight. 
And bitter he said to the one he had 

worshipp'd — 

"Your hands in mine, your face, your 
eyes 
Look level into mine, and mine 
Are not abashed in anywise 
As eyes were in an elden syne. 
Perhaps the pulse is colder now. 
And blood comes tamer to the brow 

Beca\ise of hot blood long ago 

"Withdraw your hand?. . . .Well, be it so, 
And turn your bent head slow sidewise. 
For recollections are as seas 
That come and go m tides, and these 
Are flood tides filling to the eyes. 

" How strange that you above the vale 
And I below the mountain wall 
Should walk and meet!.. Why, you are 

pale!. . 
Strange meeting on the mountain fringe!. . 
. . . .More strange we ever met at all! ... . 
Tides come and go, we know their time; 
The moon, we know her wane or prime; 
But who knows how the heart may hinge? 

" You stand before me here to-night. 
But not beside me, not beside — 
Are beautiful, but not a bride. 
Some things I recollect aright, 
Though full a dozen years are done 
Since we two met one winter night — 
Since I was crush'd as by a fall; 
For I have watch 'd and pray'd through all 
The shining circles of the sun. 



;vEN so. 



53 



" I saw you where sad cedars wave; 
I sought you in the dewy eve 
When shiuing crickets trill aud grieve; 
You smiled, aud I became a slave. 
A slave! I worshipp'd you at uight, 
When all the blue field blossom'd red 
With dewy roses overhead 
In sweet and delicate delight. 
I was devout. I knelt that night 
To Him who doeth all things well. 
I tried in vaiu to break the spell; 
My prison'd soul refused to rise 
And image saints in Paradise, 
While one was here before my eyes. 

" Some things are sooner marr'd than 
made. 
A frost fell on a soul that night. 
And one was black that erst was white. 
And you forget the place — the night! 
Forget that aught was done or said — 
Say this has pass'd a long decade — 
Say not a single tear was shed — 
Say you forget these little things! 
Is not your recollection loth? 
Well, little bees have bitter stings, 
And I remember for us both. 

"No, not a tear. Do men complain? 
The outer wound will show a stain, 
And we may shriek at idle pain; 
But pierce the heart, aud not a word, 
Or wail, or sign, is seen or heard. 

•' I did not blame — I do not blame, 
My wild heart turns to you the same, 
Such as it is; but oh, its meed 
Of faithfulness aud trust and truth. 
And earnest confidence of youth, 
I caution, you, is small indeed. 

" I foUow'd you, I worshipp'd you 
And I would follow, worship still; 
But if I felt the blight aud chill 
Of frosts iu my uncheerful spring, 
And show it now in riper years 
In answer to this love you bring — 



In answer to this second love. 

This wail of an unmated dove. 

In cautious answer to your tears — 

You, you know who taught me disdain. 

But deem you I would deal you pain? 

I joy to know your heart is light, 

I journey glad to know it thus, 

And could I dare to make it less? 

Yours — you are day, but 1 am night. 

" God knows I would descend to-day 
Devoutly on my knees, and pray 
Your way might be oue path of peace 
Through bending boughs and blossom'd 

trees, 
Aud perfect bliss through roses fair; 
But know you, back — one long decade — 
How fervently, how fond I pray'd ?— 
What was the answer to that prayer ? 

♦' The tale is old, and often told 
And lived by more than you suppose — 
The fragrance of a summer rose 
Press'd down beneath the stubborn lid, 
When sun and soug are hush'd aud hid, 
Aud summer days are gray and old. 

" We parted so. Amid the bays 
And peaceful palms aud soug and shade 
Your cheerful feet in pleasure stray'd 
Through all the swift and shining days. 

" You made my way another way. 
You bade it should not be with thine — 
A fierce aud cheerless route was mine: 
But we have met, to-night — to-day. 

"You talk of tears — of bitter tears — 
Aud tell of tyranny aud wroug, 
Aud I re-live some stinging jeers. 
Back, far back, in the leaden years. 
A lane without a turn is long, 
I muse, and whistle a reply — 
Then bite my lips and crush a sigh. 

" You sympathize that I am sad, 
I sigh for you that you comijlain, 



54 



EVEN SO. 



I shake my yellow hair in vain, 
I laugh with lips, but am not glad. 

. . . . " His was a hot love of the hours, 
And love and lover both are flown; 
Now you walk, like a ghost, alone. 
He sipp'd your sunny lips, and he 
Took all their honey; now the bee 
Bends down the heads of other flowers 
And other lips lift up to kiss. . . 
. . .1 am not cruel, yet I find 
A savage solace for the mind 
And sweet delight in saying this. . . 
Now you are silent, white, and you 
Lift up your hands as making sign, 
And your rich lips lie thin and blue 

And ashen and you writhe, and you 

Breathe quick and tremble. . .is it true 
The soul lakes wounds, sheds blood like 
wine? 

..." Tou seem so most uncommon tall 
Against the lonely ghostly moon. 
That hurries homeward oversoon, 
And hides behind you and the pines; 
And your two hands hang cold and small, 
And your two thin arms lie like vines, 
Or winter moonbeams on a wall. 
. . . What if you be a weary ghost. 
And I but dream, and dream I wake? 
Then wake me not, and my mistake 
Is not so bad; let's make the most 
Of all we get, asleep, awake — 
And waste not one sweet thing at all. 

God knows that, at the best, life brings 
The soul's share so exceeding small 
We -weary for some better things. 
And hunger even unto death. 
Laugh loud, be glad with ready breath, 
For after all are joy and grief 



Not merely matters of belief? 
And what is certain after all. 
But death, delightful, patient death? 
The cool and perfect, peaceful sleep, 
Without one tossing hand, or deep 
Sad sigh and catching in of breath! 

" Be satisfied. The price of breath 
Is paid in toil. But knowledge is 
Bought only with a weary care. 
And wisdom means a world of pain .... 
Well, we have suffered, will again. 
And we can work and wait and bear. 
Strong in the certainty of bliss. 
Death is delightful: after death 
Breaks in the dawn of perfect day. 
Let question he who will: the May 
Throws fragrance far beyond the wall. 

" Death is delightful. Death is dawn. 
Fame is not much, love is not much, 
Yet what else is there worth the touch 
Of lifted hand with dagger drawn ? 
So surely life is little worth: 
Therefore I say. Look up; therefore 
I say, One little star has more 
Bright gold than all the earth of earth. 

"Yea, we must labor, plant to reap — 
Life knows no folding up of hands — 
Must plow the soul, as plowing lands; 
In furrows fashion'd strong and deep. 
Life has its lesson. Let us learn 
The hard, long lesson from the birth. 
And be content; stand breast to breast. 
And bear and battle till the rest. 
Yet I look to yon stars, and say: 
Thank Christ, ye are so far away 
That when I win you I can turn 
And look, and see no sign of earth. 



I 



MYRRH. 



55 



MYRRH. 

Life knows no dead so beautiful 
As is the ivhite cold coffin'd past; 
This I may love nor be betray'd: 
The dead are faithful to the last. 
I am not spouseless — / have wed 
A memory — a life that 's dead. 



Farewell! for here the ways at last 
Divide — diverge, like delta'd Nile, 
Which after desert dangers pass'd 
Of many and many a thousand mile, 
As constant as a column stone, 
Seeks out the sea, divorced — alone. 

And you and I have buried Love, 
A red seal on the coffin's lid; 
The clerk below, the court above. 
Pronounce it dead: the corpse is hid 
And I who never cross'd your will 
Consent. . .that you may have it still. 

Farewell! a sad word easy said 

And easy sung, I think, by some 

I clutch'd my hands, I turn'd my 

head 
In my endeavor and was dumb; 
And when I should have said. Farewell, 
I only murmur'd, "This is hell." 

What recks it now, whose was the blame? 
But call it mine; for better used 
Am I to wrong and cold disdain, 
Can better bear to be accused 
Of all that wears the shape of shame, 
Thau have you bear one touch of blame. 

I set my face for power and place, 
My soul is toned to suUenness, 
My heart holds not one sign nor trace 
Of love, or trust, or tenderness. 
But you — your years of happiness 
God knows I would not make them less. 



And you will come some summer eve, 
When wheels the white moon on her track. 
And hear the plaintive night-bird grieve. 
And heed the crickets clad in black; 
Alone — not far — a little spell. 
And say, " Well, yes, he loved me well;" 

And sigh, " Well, yes, I mind me now, 
None were so bravely true as he; 
And yet his love was tame somehow. 
It was so truly true to me; 
I wish'd his patient love had less 
Of worship and of tenderness: 

" I wish it still, for thus alone 
There comes a keen reproach or pain, 
A feeling I dislike to own; 
Half yearnings for his voice again, 
Half longings for his earnest gaze. 
To know him mine always — always." 

* * « * « 

I make no murmur; steady, calm, 
Sphinxlike I gaze on days ahead. 
No wooing word, no pressing palm. 
No sealing love with lips seal-red, 
No waiting for some dusk or dawn. 
No sacred hour all are gone. 

I go alone; no little hands 
To lead me from forbidden ways. 
No little voice in other lands 
To cheer through all the weary days, 
Yet these are yours, and that to me 
Is much indeed ... .So let it be ... . 



56 



MYRRH. 



A last look from my mountain 

wall 

I -watch the red svm wed the sea 
Beside your home. . . . the tides will fall 
And rise, but nevermore shall we 
Stand hand in hand and watch them 

flow, 
As we once stood Christ ! this is so ! 

But, when the stately sea comes in 
With measured tread and mouth afoam, 
My darling cries above the din, 
And asks, " Has father yet come home?" 
Then look into the peaceful sky, 

And answers, gently, " By and by." 

» ♦ # * » 

One deep spring in a desert sand, 
One moss'd and mystic pyramid, 
A lonely palm on either hand, 
A fountain in a forest hid. 
Are all my life has realized 
Of all I cherish'd, all I prized: 

Of all I dream'd in early youth 
Of love by streams and love-lit ways, 
While my heart held its type of truth 
Through all the tropic golden days. 
And I the oak, and you the vine, 
Clung palm iu palm through cloud or 
shine. 

Some time when clouds hang over- 
head, 
(What weary skies without one cloud!) 
You may muse on this love that's dead, 
Muse calm when not bo cold or proud, 



And say, " At last it comes to me. 
That none was ever true as he." 

My sin was that I loved too much — 
But I enlisted for the war, 
Till we the deep-sea shore should touch, 
Beyond Atlanta — near or far — 
And truer soldier never yet 
Bore shining sword or bayonet. 

I did not blame you — do not blame. 
The stormy elements of soul 
That I did scorn to tone or tame. 
Or bind down unto dull control 
In full fierce youth, they all are yours, 
With all their folly and their force. 

God keep you pure, oh, very pure, 
God give you grace to dure and do; 
God give you coi;rage to endure 
The all He may demand of you, — 
Keep time frosts from your raven hair. 
And your young heart without a care. 

I make no murmur nor complain; 
Above me are the stars and blue 
Alluring far to grand refrain; 
Before, the beautiful and true. 
To love or hate, to win or lose; 
Lo! I will now arise, and choose. 

But should you sometime read a sign. 
In isles of song beyond the brine. 
Then you will think a time, and you 
Will turn and say, " He once was mine, 
Was all my own; his smiles, his tears 
Were mine — were mine for years and 
years." 



KIT CARSON S RIDE. 



57 



KIT CARSON'S RIDE. 

Boom! room to turn round in, to breathe and be/ree, 
To grow to be giant, to sail as at sea 
With the speed of the loind on a steed with his mane 
To the wind, without pathway or route or a rein. 
Boom! room to be free ivhere the white bordered sea 
Blows a kiss to a brother as boundless as he; 
Where the buffalo come like a cloud on the plain. 
Pouring on like the tide of a storm driven main. 
And the lodge ofthe hunter to friend or to foe 
Offers rest; and unquestioned you come or you go. 
My plains of A merica! Seas of wild lands! 
From a land in the seas in a raiment of foam, 
That has reached to a stranger the welcome of home, 
I turn to you, lean to you, lift you my hands. 
London, 1871. 



Kun? Run? See this flank, sir, and I do 

love him so! 
But he's blind as a badger. Whoa, Pache, 

boy, whoa. 
No, you wouldn't believe it to look at his 

eyes. 
But he's blind, badger blind, and it hap- 

pen'd this wise: 



"We lay in the grass and the sunburnt 

clover 
That spread on the ground like a great 

brown cover 
Northward and southward, and west and 

away 
To the Brazos, where our lodges lay. 
One broad and unbroken level of brown. 
We were waiting the curtains of night to 

come down 
To cover us trio and conceal our flight 
With my brown bride, won from an Indian 

town 
That lay in the rear the full ride of a 

night. 



"We lounged in the grass — her eyes 

were in mine, 
And her hands on my knee, and her hair 

was as wine 
In its wealth and its flood, pouring on and 

all over 
Her bosom wine red, and press'd never by 

one. 
Her touch was as warm as the tinge of the 

clover 
Burnt brown as it reach'd to the kiss of 

the sun. 
Her words they were low as the lute- 
throated dove. 
And as laden with love as the heart when 

it beats 
In its hot, eager answer to earliest love. 
Or the bee hurried home by its burthen of 

sweets. 



We lay low in the grass on the broad 
plain levels, 
Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown 
bride; 



58 



KIT CARSON S RIDE. 



" Forty full miles if a foot to ride! 
Forty full miles if a foot, aud the devils 
Of red Comauches are hot ou the track 
When once they strike it. Let the sun 

go down 
Soon, very soon," muttered bearded old 

Revels 
As he peer'd at the sun, lying low on his 

back, 
Holding fast to his lasso. Then he jerk'd 

at his steed 
And he sprang to his feet, and glanced 

swiftly around. 
And then dropp'd, as if shot, with an ear 

to the ground; 
Then again to his feet, and to me, to my 

bride. 
While his eyes were like flame, his face 

like a shroud, 
His form like a king, and his beard like a 

cloud, 
And his voice loud and shrill, as both 

trumpet and reed, — 
"Pull, pull in your lassoes, and bridle to 

steed, 
And speed you if ever for life you would 

speed. 
Aye, ride for your lives, for your lives you 

must ride! 
For the plain is aflame, the prairie on 

fire. 
And the feet of wild horses hard flying 

before 
I hear like a sea breaking high on the 

shore, 
While the buff'alo come like a surge of the 

sea. 
Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us 

three 
As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in 

his ire." 

" We drew in the lassoes, seized saddle 
and rein. 
Threw them on, cinched them on, cinched 
them over again, 



And again drew the girth; and spring we 

to horse, 
With head to the Brazos, with a sound in 

the air 
Like the surge of a sea, with a flash in 

the eye, 
From that red wall of flame reaching up 

to the sky; 
A red wall of flame and a black rolling 

sea 
Rushing fast upon us, as the wind sweep- 
ing free 
And afjar from the desert blown hollow and 

hoarse. 

" Not a word, not a wail from a lip was 

let fall. 
We broke not a whisper, we breathed not 

a prayer. 
There was work to be done, there was 

death in the air, 
And the chance was as one to a thousand 

for all. 

Twenty miles! thirty miles! a dim 

distant speck 

Then a long reaching line, and the Brazos 

in sight! 
And I rose in my seat with a shout of 

delight. 
I stood in my stirrup and look'd to my 

right — 
But Revels was gone; I glanced by my 

shoulder 
And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head 

drooping 
Hard down on his breast, and his naked 

breast stooping 
Low down to the mane, as so swifter and 

bolder 
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. 
He rode neck to neck with a bufi"alo bull. 
That made the earth shake where he came 

in his course. 
The monarch of millions, with shaggy 

mane full 



KIT CARSON S RIDE. 



59 



Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with 

desire 
Of battle, with rage and with bellowings 

hoarse. 
His keen, crooked horns, through the 

storm of his mane. 
Like black lances lifted and lifted 

again; 
And I looked but this once, for the fire 

licked through, 
And Kevels was gone, as we rode two and 

two. 



And up through the black blowing veil of 

her hair 
Did beam full in mine her two marvelous 

eyes, 
With a longing and love yet a look of 

despair 
And of pity for me, as she felt the smoke 

fold her, 
And flames leaping far for her glorious 

hair. 
Her sinking horse falter'd, plunged, fell 

and was gone 
As I reach'd through the flame and I bore 

her still on. 
On! into the Brazos, she, Pacha and 

I— 
Poor, burnt, blinded Pache. I love him . . 

That's why. 



" I look'd to my left then — and nose, neck, 

and shoulder 
Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my 

thighs, 

With better fortunes when my first London book was out, I had taken rooms at Museum street, a few doors 
from the greatest storehouse of art and history on the globe, and I literally lived in the British Museum every 
day. But I had already overtaxed my strength, and my eyes were paining terribly. Never robust, I had always 
abhorred meat; and milk, from a child, had been my strongest drink. In the chill damp of London you must 
eat and drink. I was, without knowing it, starving and working myself to death. Always and wherever you 
are, when a hard bit of work is done, rest and refresh. Go to the fields, woods, to God and get strong. This is 
your duty as well as your right. 

Letters— sweet, brave, good letters from the learned and great— were so many I could not read them with 
my poor eyes and had to leave them to friends. They found two from the Archbishop of Dublin. I was to 
breakfast with him to meet Browning, Dean Stanley, Houghton, and so on. I went to an old Jew close by to 
hire a dress suit, as Franklin had done for the Court of St. James. While fitting on the clothes I told him I 
was in haste to go to a great breakfast. He stopped, looked at me, looked me all over, and then told me I 
must not wear that, but he wouW hire me a suit of velvet. By degrees, as he fixed me up, he got at, or guessed at 
some facts, and when I asked to pay him he shook his head. I put some money down and he pushed it back. 
He said he had a son, his only family now, at Oxford, and he kept on fixing me up; cane, great, tall silk hat, 
gloves and all. Who would have guessed the heart to be found there? 

Browning was just back from Italy, sunburnt and ruddy. "Robert, you are browning," smiled Lady Au- 
gusta. "And you are August— a," bowed the great poet grandly; and, by what coincidence — he, too, was in 
brown velvet, and so like my own that I was a bit uneasy. 

Two of the Archbishop's beautiful daughters had been riding in the park with the Earl of Aberdeen. "And 
did you gallop?" asked Browning of the younger beauty. "I galloped, Joyce galloped, we galloped all three." 
Then we all laughed at the happy and hearty retort, and Browning, beating .the time and clang of galloping 
horses' feet on the table with his fingers, repeated the exact measure in Latin from Virgil; and the Archbishop 
laughingly took it up, in Latin, where he left off. I then told Browning I had an order— it was my first— for 
a poem from the Oxjord Magazine, and would like to borrow the measure and spirit of his "Good News" for 
a prairie fire on the plains, driving buffalo and all other life before it into a river. "Why not borrow from Virgil, 
as I did? He is as rich as one of your gold mines, while I am but a poor scribe." And this was my first of 
inner London. 

Fast on top of this came breakfasts with Lord Houghton, lunch with Browning, a dinner with Rossetti to 
meet the great painters; the good old Jew garmenting me always, and always pushing back the pay. But stiU I 
could not or would not eat or drink. All the time, too, a dreadful sense of terror hung over me; for brother, at 
Easton, Pa., had written that our sister in Oregon was ill, and he far from well. 

One evening Rossetti brought me Walt Whitman, new to me, and that night I lay in bed and read it through — 
the last book I ever read. I could not bear any light next morning, nor very much light ever since, nor have 
ever since looked upon any page long without intense pain Hence the "eccentricity" of never having books or 
papers about me, of writing as few letters as possible, and these on colored or unruled paper. White paper hxirts 



6o KIT carson's ride. 



me so that I must look aside, and \That with a crippled arm, too, I write a and hand. Pardon all this detail, 
but the facts may save paia to some young writers whom I surely would answer if I could. 

Let mo here note some things my new poets that you should not do ; then some that you must. The random 
notes of this booli will serve you better than all the letters I could ever write you. Spend no time or strength 
finding fault with a fellow scribe. I know but little of prize fighters or pirates of the high seas, but from what I 
am told they are far more courteous to one another than are American authors, except in sets and little circles. 

If you feel a bitterness my young poet toward some one more favored at this time than yourself, pray God 
to send some good angei to lay you on your back and take the black drop from your heart, for it will make you 
not only weak and worthless if it remain, but it will make you certainly miserable. If you cannot learn to see 
beauty and love beauty in the life and work of Nature, then, believe me, you were not born to the sweetness of 
song. If you must find faults find them in your own work. I have done this, and it has kept me busy. Not: 
shall you to the extent of its newness, scorn a new character, mistake character for eccentricity. Our work, 
the calling of the poet is the highest under the stars, so are his triumphs the rarest; and ho who would despoil 
him would despoil the dead. 

Nor shall you bewail the afilictions of your flesh. That is old, old; and has been done perfectly. The man 
who intrudes the weakness of his body Is a bore. Let him. if he must, sing the weakness of his mind. But when 
"he putteth off his armor," then, and not till then, may he teU the pain and peril of his fight. 

And now fell the pending sword, just as my London life began. Sister was dead and my soldier brother 
dying— bleeding at the lungs. I took the first steamer, at Southampton for his bedside, so blinded that I had 
to be led to my berth. 

This poem was not in any of my four first books, and so has not been rightly revised till now. It was too long 
for the tumultuous and swift action; and then the end was coarse and unworthy the brave spirit of Kit Carson. I 
have here cut and changed it much; as I cut and changed all the matter of ray three preceding books in London 
when I cut and compressed all I had done worth preserving into the Songs of the Sierras. 




WHEN LITTLE SISTER CAME. 



6l 



WHEN LITTLE SISTER CAME. 



We dwelt in the woods of the Tippe- 
canoe, 

In a lone lost cabin, with never a view 

Of the full day's sun for a whole year 
through. 

With strange half hints through the rus- 
set corn 

We children were hurried one night. Next 
morn 

There was frost on the trees, and a sprinkle 
of snow, 

And tracks on the ground. Three boys 
below 

The low eave listened. We burst through 
the door. 

And a girl baby cried, — and then we were 
four. 



AVe were not sturdy, and we were not 
wise 

In the things of the world, and the ways 
men dare. 

A pale browed mother with a prophet's 
eyes, 

A father that dreamed and looked any- 
where. 

Three brothers — wild blossoms, tall- 
fashioned as men 

And we mingled with none, but we lived 
as when 

The pair first lived ere they knew the 
fall; 

And, loving all things, we believed in 
all. 

Ah! girding yourself and throwing your 
strength 



On the front of the forest that stands in 

mail. 
Sounds gallant, indeed, in a iiioneer's 

tale. 
But, God in heaven! the weariness 
Of a sweet soul banished to a life like 

this! 

This reaching of weary-worn arms full 

length; 
This stooping all day to the cold stubborn 

soil — 
This holding the heart! it is more than 

toil! 
What loneless of heart! what wishings to 

die 
In that soul in the earth, that was born 

for the sky! 

We parted wood-curtains, pushed west- 
ward and we. 

Why, we wandered and wandered a half 
year through. 

We tented with herds as the Arabs do, 

And at last sat down by the sundown 
sea. 

Then there in that sun did my soul take 
fire! 

It burned in its fervor, thou Venice, for 
thee! 

My glad heart glowed with the one de- 
sire 

To stride to the front, to live, to be! 

To strow great thoughts through the 
world as I went. 

As God sows stars through the firma- 
ment. 
Venice, 1874. 



62 WHEN LITTLE SISTER CAME. 

We had been moviug West and West from my birth, at Liberty, Union county, Ind., November 10, 1841 or 
1842 (the Bible was burned and we don't know which year), and now were in the woods o£ the Miami Indian 
Reserve. My first recollection is of starting up from the trundle bed with my two little brothers and looking 
out one night at father and mother at work burning brush -heaps, which threw a lurid flare against the 
greased paper window. Late that autumn I was measured for my first shoes, and Papa led me to his school. 
Then a strange old woman came, and there was mystery and a smell of mint, and one night, as we three little 
ones were hurried away through the woods to a neighbor's, she was very cross. We three came back alone in the 
cold, early morning. There was a little snow, rabbit tracks in the trail, and some quail ran hastily from cover 
to cover. We three little ones were all alone and silent, so silent. We knew nothing, nothing at all, and yet wo 
knew, intuitively, all; bat truly the divine mystery of mother nature, God's relegation of His last great work to 
woman, her partnership with Him in creation— not one of us had ever dreamed of. Yet we three little lads hud 
died up in a knot near the ice-hung eaves of the log cabin outside the corner where mother's bed stood and — did 
the new baby hear her silent and awed little brothers? Did she feel them, outside there, huddled close together 
iathecoldandsnow, listening, listening? For lol a little baby cry came through the cabin wall; and then we 
all rushed around the corner of the cabin, jerked the latch and all three in a heap tumbled up into the bed and 
peered down into the little pink face against mother's breast. Gentle, gentle, how more than ever gentle were wa 
an six now in that little log cabin. Papa doing everything so gently, saying nothing, only doing, doing. And ever 
so and always toward the West, till 1852, when he had touched the sea of seas, and could go no farther. And so 
gentle always? Can you conceive how gentle ? Seventy-two years he led and lived in the wilderness and yet 
never fired or even laid hand to a gun. 




OLIVE LEAVKS. 



63 



OLIVE LEAVES. 

"In the desert a fountain is springing. 
In the wild ivaste there still is a tree." 

" Though the many lights dwindle to one light, 
Inhere is help if the heavens have one." 

" Change lays not her hand upon truth." 



AT BETHLEHEM. 

With incense and myrrh and sweet spices, 

Frankincense and sacredest oil 
In ivory, chased with devices 

Cut quaint and in serpentine coil; 
Heads bared, and held down to the bosom; 

Brows massive with wisdom and 
bronzed; 
Beards white as the white May in blos- 
som; 

And borne to the breast and beyond, — 
Came the Wise of the East, bending lowly 

On staffs, with their garments girt round 
With girdles of hair, to the Holy 

Child Christ, in their sandals. The 
sound 
Of song and thanksgiving ascended — 

Deep night! Yet some shepherds afar 
Heard a wail with the worshipping blended 

And they then knew the sign of the star. 

"LA NOTTE." 

Is it night? And sits night at your pil- 
low? 

Sits darkness about you like death ? 
Eolls darkness above like a billow. 

As drowning men catch in their breath ? 

Is it night, and deep night of dark errors, 
Of crosses, of pitfalls and bars? 

Then lift up your face from your terrors. 
For heaven alone holds the stars! 



Lo! shaggy beard shepherds, the fast- 
ness — 

Lorn, desolate Syrian sod; 
The darkness, the midnight, the vastness — 

That vast, solemn night bore a God! 

The night brought us God; and the Savior 

Lay down in a cradle to rest; 
A sweet cherub Babe in behavior, 

So that all baby-world might be blest. 

IN PALESTINE. 

O Jebus! thou mother of prophets, 
Of soldiers and heroes of song; 

Let the crescent oppress thee and scoff its 
Blind will, let the days do thee wrong; 

But to me thou art sacred and splendid. 
And to me thou art matchless and fair, 

As the tawny sweet twilight, with blended 
Sunlight and red stars in her hair. 

Thy fair ships once came from sweet Cy- 
prus, 

And fair ships drew in from Cyi-ene, 
With fruits and rich robes and sweet spices 

For thee and thine, eminent queen; 

And camels came in with the traces 
Of white desert dust in their hair 

As they kneel'd in the loud market places. 
And Arabs with lances were there. 



64 



OLIVE LEAVES. 



'Tis past, and the Bedouin pillows 
His head where thy battlements fall, 

And thy temples flash gold to the bil- 
lows, 
Never more over turreted wall. 

'Tis past, and the green velvet mosses 
Have grown by the sea, and now sore 

Does the far billow mourn for his losses 
Of lifted white ships to the shore. 

Let the crescent uprise, let it flash on 
Thy dust in the garden of death, 

Thy chastened and passionless passion 
Sunk down to the sound of a breath; 

Yet you lived like a king on a throne 
and 
You died like a queen of the south; 
For you lifted the cup with your own 
hand 
To your proud and your passionate 
mouth; 

Like a splendid swift serpent surrounded 
With fire and sword, in your side 

You struck your hot fangs and confounded 
Your foes; you struck deep, and so — 
died. 

BEYOND JORDAN. 

And they came to him, mothers of Judah, 
Dark eyed and in splendor of hair, 

Bearing down over shoulders of beauty. 
And bosoms half hidden, half bare; 

And they brought him their babes and be- 
sought him 
Half kneeling, with suppliant air, 
To bless the brown cherubs they brought 
him. 
With holy hands laid in their hair. 

Then reaching his hands he said, lowly, 
" Of such is My Kingdom; " and then 



Took the brown little babes in the holy 
White hands of the Savior of men; 

Held them close to his heart and caress'd 

them. 
Put his face down to theirs as in prayer, 
Put their hands to his neck, and so bless'd 

them 
With baby hands hid in his hair. 

FAITH. 

There were whimsical turns of the waters, 
There were rhythmical talks of the sea, — 

There were gather'd the darkest eyed 
daughters 
Of men, by the deep Galilee. 

A blowing full sail, and a parting 
From multitudes, living in Him, 

A trembling of lips, and tears starting 
From eyes that look'd downward and 
dim. 

A mantle of night and a marching 
Of storms, and a sounding of seas. 

Of furrows of foam and of arching 
Black billows; a bending of knees; 

The rising of Christ — an entreating — 

Hands reach'd to the seas as he saith, 
" Have Faith! " And all seas are repeat- 
ing, 
"Have Faith! Have Faith! Have 
Faith! " 

HOPE. 

What song is well sung not of sorrow? 

What triumph well won without pain? 
What virtue shall be, and not bon-ow 

Bright luster from many a stain? 

What birth has there been without tra- 
vail? 
What battle well won without blood? 



I 



OLIVE LEAVES. 



65 



What good shall earth see without evil 
Ingaruer'd as chaflf with the good ? 

Lo! the Cross set in rocks by the Roman, 
And nourish'd by blood of the Lamb, 

And water'd by tears of the woman, 

Has flourish'd, has spread like a palm; 

Has spread in the frosts, and far regions 
Of snows in the North, and South sands. 

Where never the tramp of his legions 
Was heard, or reach'd forth his red 
hands. 

Be thankful; the price and the payment. 
The birth, the privations and scorn, 

The cross, and the parting of raiment, 
Are finish'd. The star brought us morn. 

Look starward; stand far and unearthy. 
Free soul'd as a banner unfurl'd. 

Be worthy, O brother, be worthy! 
For a God was the price of the world. 

CHARITY. 

Her hands were clasped downward and 
doubled, 

Her head was held down and depress'd. 
Her bosom, like white billows troubled. 

Fell fitful and rose in unrest; 

Her robes were all dust, and disorder'd 
\ 
Her glory of hair, and her brow. 

Her face, that had lifted and lorded. 

Fell pallid and passionless now. 

She heard not accusers that brought her 

In mockery hurried to Him, 
Nor heeded, nor said, nor besought her 

With eyes lifted doubtful and dim. 

All crush'd and stoue-cast in behavior. 
She stood as a marble would stand, 

Then the Savior bent down, and the 
Savior 
In silence wrote on in the sand. 



What wrote He? How fondly one lin- 
gers 

And questions, what holy command 
Fell down from the beautiful fingers 

Of Jesus, like gems in the sand. 

O better the Scian uncherish'd 
Had died ere a note or device 

Of battle was fashion'd, than perish'd 
This only line written by Christ. 

He arose and look'd on the daughter 
Of Eve, like a delicate flower, 

And he heard the revilers that brought 
her; 
Men stormy, and strong as a tower; 

And He said, " She has sinn'd ; let the 
blameless 
Come forward and cast the first stone! " 
But they, they fled shamed and yet shame- 
less; 
And she, she stood white and alone. 

Who now shall accuse and arraign us ? 

What man shall condemn and dis- 
own? 
Since Christ has said only the stainless 

Shall cast at his fellows a stone. 

For what man can bare us his bosom. 
And touch with his forefinger there, 

And say, 'Tis as snow, as a blossom ? 
Beware of the stainless, beware! 

woman, born first to believe us; 

Yea, also born first to forget; 
Born first to betray and deceive us; 

Yet first to repent and regret! 

O first then in all that is human, 
Yea! first where the Nazarene trod, 

O woman! beautiful woman! 

Be then first in the kingdom of God! 



66 



OLIVE LEAVES. 



THE LAST SUPPEK. 

'* And when they had simg an hymn they 
went out into the Mount of Olives." 

What song sang the twelve with the Savior 
When finish'd the sacrament wine ? 

Were they bow'd and subdued in behav- 
ior, 
Or bold as made bold with a sign ? 

Were the hairy breasts strong and de- 
fiant? 
Were the naked arms brawny and strong ? 
Were the bearded lips lifted reliant, 
Thrust forth and full sturdy with song! 

What sang they? What sweet song of 
Zion 

With Christ in their midst like a crown ? 
While here sat Saint Peter, the lion; 

And there like a lamb, with head down, 

Sat Saint John, with his silken and 
raven 

Kich hair on his shoulders, and eyes 
Lifting up to the faces unshaven 

Like a sensitive child's in surprise. 

Was the song as strong fishermen swing- 
ing 

Their nets full of hope to the sea? 
Or low, like the ripple wave, singing 

Sea songs on their loved Galilee? 

Were they sad with foreshadow of sor- 
rows, 
Like the birds that sing low when the 
breeze 
Is tiptoe with a tale of to-morrows, — 
Of earthquakes and sinking of seas? 

Ah! soft was their song as the waves are 
That fall in low musical moans; 

And sad I should say as the winds are 
That blow by the white gravestones. 



A SONG FOE PEACE. 
I. 

As a tale that is told, as a vision. 

Forgive and forget; for I say 
That the true shall endure the deris- 
ion 

Of the false till the full of the day; 



Ay, forgive as you would be forgiven; 

Ay, forget, lest the ill you have done 
Be remember'd against you in heaven 

And all the days under the sun. 



For who shall have bread without labor? 
And who shall have rest without 
price? 
And who shall hold war with his neigh- 
bor 
W^ith promise of peace with the Christ? 



The years may lay hand on fair heaven; 

May place and displace the red stars; 
May stain them, as blood stains are 
driven 

At sunset in beautiful bars; 

« V. 

May shroud them in black till they fret 
us 

As clouds with their showers of tears; 
May grind us to dust and forget us, 

May the years, O, the pitiless years! 



But the precepts of Christ are beyond 
them ; 

The truths by the Nazarene taught. 
With the tramp of the ages upon them. 

They endure as though ages were naught; 



OLIVE LEAVES. 



67 



The deserts may drink up the foun- 
tains, 
The forests give place to the plain, 
The main may give place to the moun- 
tains, 
The mountains return to the main; 



Mutations of worlds and mutations 
Of suns may take place, but the 
reign 

Of Time, and the toils and vexations 
Bequeath them, no, never a stain. 



Go forth to the fields as one sowing, 
Sing songs and be glad as you go, 

There are seeds that take root without 
showing, 
And bear some fruit whether or no. 

X. 

And the sun shall shine sooner or later. 
Though the midnight breaks ground on 
the morn, 
Then appeal you to Christ, the Creator, 
And to gray bearded Time, His first 
born. 



Jean Ingelow, London, had given a letter to a Uoston publisher, who came to me there for my book in America, 
as I was more entirely a stranger in the Atlantic States than in Europe; and now returned I sat all summer 
at a bedside, editing the book and also trying to write the Life of Christ in verse £or Brother. At last the revised 
edition for America was done. It came just in time. He took the book, still damp from the binders, said "It is 
a pretty book," and laid it down. He said some other things, sacred to us, and passed. Had be lived, with his 
better sense about all things, I surely should have done better, better in all ways. Death had broken in upon us 
cruelly, and I must go back to Oregon now. There was not time nor heart nor health to finish the Life of 
Christ; besides I had begun to see that the measure was monotonous. The greatest poem on earth probably is the 
Sermon on the Mount. I laid the few completed pages on my Brother's grave, and once more I was in Oregon. 
Care and toil had again brought on the painful snow blindness, and yet how fortunate this cruel misfortune now. 
For I could not see to read the fearfully coarse insults and falsehoods that now pursued me, simply because I had, 
at such cost, garmented my mountains with a new glory. 

O boy at peace upon the Delaware ! 

brother mine, that fell in battle front 
Of life, so braver, nobler far than I. 
The wanderer who vexed all gentleness. 
Receive this song ; I have but this to give. 

1 may not rear the rich man's ghostly stone ; 
But you, through all my follies loving still 
And trusting me nay, I shall not forget. 



A failing hand in mine, ftnd fading eyes 

That look'd in mine as from another land. 

You said : " Some gentler things ; a song for Peace. 

'Mid all your songs for men one song for God." 

And then the dark-brow'd mother, Death, bent down 

Her face to yours, and you were born to Him. 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 69 



SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



In a land so far that you ivonder whether 
If God loould know it should you fall down dead'. 

In a land so far through the soft, warm weather 
That the su7i siiiks red as a warrior sped, — 

Where the sea and the shy seem closing together, 
Seem closing together as a book that is read: 

'Tis the half-finished world! Yon footfall retreating, — 

It might be the Maker disturbed at his task. 
But the footfall of God, or the far pheasant beating, 

It is one and the same, whatever the mask 
It may v)ear unto man. The woods keep repeating 

The old sacred sermons, whatever you ask. 

It is man in his garden, scarce wakened as yet 

From the sleep that fell on him when woman was made. 

The new-finished garden is plastic and wet 
From the hand that has fashioned its unpeopled shade ; 

And the ivonder still looks from, the fair ivoman's eyes 

As she shines through the wood like the light from the skies. 

And a ship now and then for this far Ophir shore 
Draws in from the sea. It lies close to the bank ; 
Then a dull, muffled sound on the sloiv shuffled plank 

As they load the black ship ; but you hear nothing more. 
And the dark, dewy vines, and the tall, somber wood 
Like twilight droop over the deep, sweeping flood. 

The black masts are tangled with branches that cross. 
The rich fragrant gums fall from branches to deck. 

The thin ropes are swinging with streamers of moss 
That mantle all things like the shreds of a wreck ; 

The long mosses swing, there is never a breath: 

The river rolls still as the river of death. 



70 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



In the beginniug, — ay, before 
The six-days' labors were well o'er; 
Yea, while the world lay incomplete, 
Ere God had opened quite the door 
Of this strange land for strong men's 

feet, — 
There lay against that westmost sea, 
A weird, wild land of mystery. 

A far white wall, like fallen moon. 
Girt out the world. The forest lay 
So deep you scarcely saw the day, 
Save in the high-held middle noon: 
It lay a land of sleep and dreams. 
And clouds drew through like shoreless 

streams 
That stretch to where no man may say. 

Men reached it only from the sea, 
By black-built ships, that seemed to creep 
Along the shore suspiciously. 
Like unnamed monsters of the deep. 
It was the weirdest land, I ween, 
That mortal eye has ever seen. 

A dim, dark land of bird and beast, 
Black shaggy beasts with cloven claw, — 
A land that scarce knew prayer or priest. 
Or law of man, or Nature's law; 
Where no fixed line drew sharj) dispute 
'Twixt savage man and sullen brute. 



It hath a history most fit 
For cunning hand to fashion on; 
No chronicler hath mentioned it; 
No buccaneer set foot upon. 
'Tis of an outlawed Spanish Don, — 
A cruel man, with pirate's gold 
That loaded down his deep ship's hold. 

A deep ship's hold of plundered gold! 
The golden cruse, the golden cross. 
From many a church of Mexico, 



From Panama's mad overthrow. 
From many a ransomed city's loss, 
From many a follower fierce and bold, 
And many a foeman stark and cold. 

He found this wild, lost land. He drew 
His ship to shore. His ruthless crew, 
Like Romulus, laid lawless hand 
On meek brown maidens of the land, 
And in their bloody forays bore 
Red firebrands along the shore. 



The red men rose at night. They came, 
A firm, unflinching wall of flame; 
They swept, as sweeps some fateful sea 
O'er land of sand and level shore 
That howls in far, fierce agony. 
The red men swept that deep, dark shore 
As threshers sweep a threshing floor. 

And yet beside the slain Don's door 
They left his daughter, as they fled: 
They spared her life because she bore 
Their Chieftain's blood and name. The 

red 
And blood-stained hidden hoards of gold 
They hollowed from the stout ship's hold, 
And bore in many a slim canoe — 
To where? The good priest only knew. 



The course of life is like the sea; 
Men come and go; tides rise and fall; 
And that is all of history. 
The tide flows in, flows out to-day — 
And that is all that man may say; 
Man is, man was, — and that is all. 

Revenge at last came like a tide,— 
'T was sweeping, deep and terrible; 
The Christian found the land, and came 
To take possession in Christ's name. 
For every white man that had died 
1 think a thousand red men fell, — 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



71 



A Christian custom; and the land 
Lay lifeless as some burned-out brand. 



Ere while the slain Don's daughter grew 
A glorious thing, a flower of spring, 
A something more than mortals knew; 
A mystery of grace and face, — 
A silent mystery that stood 
An empress in that sea-set wood, 
Supreme, imperial in her place. 

It might have been men's lust for gold, — 
For all men knew that lawless crew 
Left hoards of gold in that ship's hold, 
That drew ships hence, and silent drew 
Strange Jasons there to love or dare; 
I never knew, nor need I care. 

I say it might have been this gold 
That ever drew and strangely drew 
Strong men of land, strange men of sea 
To seek this shore of mystery 
With all its wondrous tales untold; 
The gold or her, which of the two? 
It matters not to me, or you. 

But this I know, that as for me, 
Between that face and the hard fate 
That kept me ever from my own. 
As some wronged monarch from his 

throne. 
All heaped-up gold of land or sea 
Had never weighed one feather's weight. 

Her home was on the wooded height, — 
A woody home, a priest at prayer, 
A perfume in the fervid air, 
And angels watching her at night. 
I can but think upon the skies 
That bound that other Paradise. 



Below a star-built arch, as grand 
As ever bended heaven spanned. 
Tall trees like mighty columns grew — 



They loomed as if to pierce the blue, 
They reached, as reaching heaven through. 

The shadowed stream rolled far below. 
Where men moved noiseless to and fro 
As in some vast cathedral, when 
The calm of prayer comes to men. 
And benedictions bless them so. 

What wooded sea-banks, wild and steep! 
What trackless wood! what snowy cone 
That lifted from this wood alone! 
What wild, wide river, dark and deep? 
What ships against the shore asleep! 



An Indian woman cautious crept 
About the land the while it slept, 
The relic of her perished race. 
She wore rich, rudely-fashioned bands 
Of gold above her bony hands; 
She hissed hot curses on the place! 



Go seek the red man's last retreat! 
What lonesome lands! what haunted lands! 
Red mouths of beasts, red men's red hands; 
Red prophet-priests, in mute defeat. 
From Incan temples overthrown 
To lorn Alaska's isles of bone 
The red man lives and dies alone. 

His boundaries in blood are writ! 
His land is ghostland! That is his, 
Whatever we may claim of this; 
Beware how you shall enter it! 
He stands God's guardian of ghostlands; 
Yea, this same wrapped half-prophet stands 
All nude and voiceless, nearer to 
The dread, lone God than I or you. 



This bronzed child, by that river's brink, 
Stood fair to see as you can think. 
As tall as tall reeds at her feet, 



72 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



As fresh as flowers in her hair; 
As sweet as flowers over-sweet, 
As fair as vision more than fair! 

How beautiful she was! How wild! 
How pure as water-plant, this child, — 
This one wild child of Nature here 
Grown tall in shadows. 

And how near 
To God, where no man stood between 
Her eyes and scenes no man hath seen, — 
This maiden that so mutely stood, 
The one lone woman of that wood. 

Stop still, my friend, and do not stir, 
Shut close your page and think of her. 
The birds sang sweeter for her face; 
Her lifted eyes were like a grace 
To seamen of that solitude. 
However rough, however rude. 

The rippled river of her hair, 
Flowed in such wondrous waves, somehow 
Flowed down divided by her brow, — 
It mantled her within its care, 
And flooded all her form below, 
In its uncommon fold and flow. 

A perfume and an incense lay 
Before her, as an incense sweet 
Before blithe mowers of sweet May 
In early morn. Her certain feet 
Embarked on no uncertain way. 

Come, think how perfect before men, 
How sweet as sweet magnolia bloom 
Embalmed in dews of morning, when 
Eich sunlight leaps from midnight gloom 
Resolved to kiss, and swift to kiss 
Ere yet morn wakens man to bliss. 



The days swept on. Her perfect year 
"Was with her now. The sweet perfume 
Of womanhood in holy bloom. 



As when red harvest blooms a^jpear. 
Possessed her soul. The priest did praj 
That saints alone should pass that way. 

A red bird built beneath her roof, 
Brown squirrels crossed her cabin sill, 
And welcome came or went at will. 
A hermit spider wove his web 
Above her door and plied his trade. 
With none to fright or make afraid. 

The silly elk, the spotted fawn. 
And all dumb beasts that came to drink. 
That stealthy stole upon the brink 
By coming night or going dawn, 
On seeing her familiar face 
Would fearless stop and stand in place. 

She was so kind, the beasts of night 
Gave her the road as if her right; 
The panther crouching overhead 
In sheen of moss would hear her tread, 
And bend his eyes, but never stir 
Lest he by chance might frighten her. 

Yet in her splendid strength, her eyes, 
There lay the lightning of the skies; 
The love-hate of the lioness. 
To kill the instant or caress: 
A pent-up soul that sometimes grew 
Impatient; why, she hardly knew. 

At last she sighed, uprose, and threw 
Her strong arms out as if to hand 
Her love, sun-born and all complete 
At birth, to some brave lover's feet 
On some far, fair, and iinseen land, 
As knowing not quite what to do! 



How beautiful she was! Why, she 
Was inspiration! She was born 
To walk God's sunlit hills at morn. 
Nor waste her by this wood-dark sea. 
What wonder, then, her soul's white winga 
Beat at its bars, like living things! 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



73 



Once more she sighed! She wandered 

through 
The sea-bound wood, then stopped and 

drew 
Her hand above her face, and swept 
The lonesome sea, and all day kept 
Her face to sea, as if she knew 
Some day, some near or distant day. 
Her destiny should come that way. 

XII. 

How i^roud she was! How darkly fair! 
How full of faith, of love, of strength! 
Her calm, proud eyes! Her great hair's 

length, — 
Her long, strong, tumbled, careless hair, 
Half curled and knotted anywhere, — 
By brow or breast, or cheek or chin, 
For love to trip and tangle iu! 



At last a tall strange sail was seen: 
It came so slow, so wearily. 
Came creeping cautious up the sea, 
As if it crept from out between 
The half-closed sea and sky that lay 
Tight wedged together, far away. 

She watched it, wooed it. She did pray 
It might not pass her by but bring 
Some love, some hate, some anything, 
To break the awful loneliness 
That like a nightly nightmare lay 
Upon her proud and pent-up soul 
Until it barely brooked control. 



The ship crept silent up the sea, 
And came — 

You cannot understand 
How fair she was, how sudden she 
Had sprung, full grown, to womanhoods 
How gracious, yet how proud and grand; 
How glorified, yet fresh and free. 
How human, yet how more than good. 



The ship stole slowly, slowly on; — 
Should you in Californian field 
In ample flower-time behold 
The soft south rose lift like a shield 
Against the sudden sun at dawn, 
A double handful of heaped gold, 
Why you, perhaps, might understand 
How splendid and how queenly she 
Uprose beside that wood-set sea. 

The storm-worn ship scarce seemed to 
creep 
From wave to wave. It scarce could 

keep — 
How still this fair girl stood, how fair! 
How tall her presence as she stood 
Between that vast sea and west wood! 
How large and liberal her soul, 
How confident, how purely chare, 
How trusting; how untried the whole 
Great heart, grand faith, that blossomed 

there. 

XVI. 

Ay, she was as Madonna to 
The tawny, lawless, faithful few 
Who touched her hand and knew her soul: 
She drew them, drew them as the pole 
Points all things to itself. 

She drew 
Men upward as a moon of spring. 
High wheeling, vast and bosom-full. 
Half clad in clouds and white as wool. 
Draws all the strong seas following. 

Tet still she moved as sad, as lone 
As that same moon that leans above, 
And seems to search high heaven through 
For some strong, all sufficient love. 
For one brave love to be her own. 
Be all her own and ever true. 

Oh, I once knew a sad, sweet dove 
That died for such sufficient love, 



74 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



Such high, white love with wings to soar, 
That looks love level in the face, 
Nor wearies love with leaning o'er 
To lift love level to her place. 



How slow before the sleeping breeze, 
That stranger ship from under seas! 
How like to Dido by her sea, 
When reaching arms imploringly, — 
Her large, round, rich, impassiond arms, 
Tossed forth from all her storied charms — 
This one lone maiden leaning stood 
Above that sea, beneath that wood! 

The ship crept strangely up the seas; 
Her shrouds seemed shreds, her masts 

seemed trees, — 
Strange tattered trees of toughest bough 
That knew no cease of storm till now. 
The maiden pitied her; she prayed 
Her crew might come, nor feel afraid; 
She prayed the winds might come, — they 

came, 
As birds that answer to a name. 

The maiden held her blowing hair 
That bound her beauteous self about; 
The sea-winds housed within her hair; 
She let it go, it blew in rout 
About her bosom full and bare. 
Her round, full arms were free as air. 
Her high hands clasped as clasped In 
prayer. 



The breeze grew bold, the battered ship 
Began to flaiJ her weary wings; 
The tall, torn masts began to dip 
And walk the wave like living things. 
She rounded in, moved up the stream, 
She moved like some majestic dream. 

The captain kept her deck. He stood 
A Hercules among his men; 
And now he watched the sea, and then 



He peered as if to pierce the wood. 
He now looked back, as if pursued. 
Now swept the sea with glass as though 
He fled, or feared some prowling foe. 

Slow sailing up the river's mouth. 
Slow tacking north, slow tacking south. 
He touched the overhanging wood; 
He kept his deck, his tall black mast 
Touched tree-top mosses as he passed; 
He touched the steep shore where she 
stood. 

XIX. 

Her hands still clasped as if in prayer, 
Sweet prayer set to silentness; 
Her sun-browned throat uplifted, bare 
And beautiful. 

Her eager face 
Illumed with love and tenderness. 
And all her presence gave such grace, 
That she seemed more than mortal, fair. 



He saw. He could not speak. No more 
With lifted glass he swept the sea; 
No more he watched the wild new shore. 
Now foes might come, now friends might 

flee; 
He could not speak, he would not stir, — 
He saw but her, he feared but her. 

The black ship ground against the shore, 
With creak and groan and rusty clank, 
And tore the mellow blossomed bank; 
She ground against the bank as one 
With long and weary journeys done. 
That will not rise to journey more. 

Yet still tall Jason silent stood 
And gazed against that sea-washed wood, 
As one whose soul is anywhere. 
All seemed so fair, so wondrous fair! 
At last aroused, he stepped to land 
Like some Columbus; then laid hand 
On lands and fruits, and rested there. 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



75 



He found all fairer than fair morn 
In sylvan land, where waters run 
With downward leap against the sun. 
And full-grown sudden May is born. 
He found her taller than tall corn 
Tiptoe in tassel; found her sweet 
As vale where bees of Hybla meet. 

An unblown rose, an uuread book; 
A wonder in her wondrous eyes; 
A large, religious, steadfast look 
Of faith, of trust, — the look of one 
New fashioned in fair Paradise. 

He read this book — read on and on 
From title page to colophon: 
As in cool woods, some summer day. 
You find delight in one sweet lay, 
And so entranced read on and on 
From title page to colophon. 



And who was he that rested there, — 
This giant of a grander day. 
This Theseus of a nobler Greece, 
This Jason of the golden fleece? 
Aye, who was he? And who were they 
That came to seek the hidden gold 
Long hollowed from the pirate's hold ? 
I do not know. You need not care. 



They loved, this maiden and this 
man. 
And that is all I surely know, — 
The rest is as the winds that blow. 
He bowed as brave men bow to fate, 
Yet proud and resolute and bold; 
She shy at first, and coyly cold, 
Held back and tried to hesitate, — 
Half frightened at this love that ran 
Hard gallop till her hot heart beat 
Like sounding of swift courser's feet. 



Two strong streams of a land must 
run 
Together surely as the sun 
Succeeds the moon. Who shall gainsay 
The gods that reign, that wisely reign? 
Love is, love was, shall be again. 
Like death, inevitable it is: 
Perchance, like death, the dawn of bliss. 
Let us, then, love the perfect day, 
The twelve o'clock of life, and stop 
The two hands pointing to the top. 
And hold them tightly while we may. 



How beautiful is love! The walks 
By wooded ways; the silent talks 
Beneath the broad and fragrant bough. 
The dark deep wood, the dense black 

dell. 
Where scarce a single gold beam fell 
From out the sun. 

They rested now 
On mossy trunk. They wandered then 
Where never fell the feet of men. 
Then longer walks, then deeper woods, 
Then sweeter talks, sufficient sweet, 
In denser, deeper solitudes, — 
Dear careless ways for careless feet; 
Sweet talks of paradise for two, 
And only two to watch or woo. 

She rarely spake. All seemed a dream 
She would not waken from. She lay 
All night but waiting for the day, 
When she might see his face, and deem 
This man, with all his perils passed. 
Had found sweet Lotus-land at last. 



The year waxed fervid, and the sun 
Fell central down. The forest lay 
A-quiver in the heat. The sea 
Below the steep bank seemed to run 
A molten sea of gold. 



76 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



I 



Away 
Against the gray and rock-built isles 
That broke the molten watery miles 
Where lonesome sea-cows called all day, 
The sudden sun smote angrily. 

Therefore the need of deeper deeps, 
Of denser shade for man and maid, 
Of higher heights, of cooler steeps, 
Where all day long the sea-wind stayed. 

They sought the rock-reared steep. The 
breeze 
Swept twenty thousand miles of seas; 
Had twenty thousand things to say, 
Of love, of lovers of Cathay, 
To lovers 'mid these mossy trees. 



To left, to right, below the height. 
Below the wood by wave and stream, 
Plumed pampas grass did wave and gleam 
And bend their lordly plumes, and run 
And shake, as if in very fright 
Before sharp lances of the sun. 

They saw the tide-bound, battered ship 
Creep close below against the bank; 
They saw it cringe and shrink; it shrank 
As shrinks some huge black beast with 

fear 
When some uncommon dread is near. 
They heard the melting resin drip. 
As drip the last brave blood-drops when 
Ked battle waxes hot with men. 



Yet what to her were burning seas, 
Or what to him was forest flame ? 
They loved; they loved the glorious trees; 
The gleaming tides might rise or fall, — 
They loved the lisping winds that came 
From sea-lost spice-set isles unknown. 
With breath not warmer than their own; 
They loved, they loved, — and that was all. 



Full noon! Above, the ancient moss ■ 

From mighty boughs swang slow across, ■ 
As when some priest slow chants a prayer 
And swings sweet smoke and perfumed air 
From censer swinging — anywhere. 

He spake of love, of boundless love, — 
Of love that knew no other land, 
Or face, or place, or anything; J 

Of love that like the wearied dove u 

Could light nowhere, but kept the wing 
Till she alone put forth her hand 
And so received it in her ark 
From seas that shake against the dark! 

Her proud breast heaved, her pure, bare 
breast 
Rose like the waves in their unrest 
When counter storms possess the seas. 
Her mouth, her arch, uplifted mouth. 
Her ardent mouth that thirsted so, — 
No glowing love song of the South 
Can say; no man can say or know 
Such truth as lies beneath such trees. 

Her face still lifted up. And she 
Disdained the cup of passion he 
Hard pressed her panting lips to touch. 
She dashed it by, uprose, and she 
Caught fast her breath. She trembled 

much. 
Then sudden rose full height, and stood 
An empress in high womanhood: 
She stood a tower, tall as when 
Proud Eoman mothers suckled men 
Of old-time truth and taught them such. 



Her soul surged vast as space is. She 
Was trembling as a courser when 
His thin flank quivers, and his feet 
Touch velvet on the turf, and he 
Is all afoam, alert and fleet 
As sunlight glancing on the sea, 
And full of triumph before men. 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



77 



At last she bended some her face, 
Half leaned, then put him back a pace, 
And met his eyes. 

Calm, silently 
Her eyes looked deep into his eyes, — 
As maidens search some mossy well 
And peer in hope by chance to tell 
By image there what future lies 
Before them, and what face shall be 
The pole-star of their destiny. 

Pure Nature's lover! Loving him 
With love that made all pathways dim 
And difficult where he was not, — 
Then marvel not at forms forgot. 
And who shall chide? Doth priest know 

aught 
Of sign, or holy unction brought 
From over seas, that ever can 
Make man love maid or maid love man 
One whit the more, one bit the less, 
For all his mummeries to bless ? 
Yea, all his blessings or his ban? 

The winds breathed warm as Araby; 
She leaned upon his breast, she lay 
A wide-winged swan with folded wing. 
He drowned his hot face in her hair. 
He heard her great heart rise and sing; 
He felt her bosom swell. 

The air 
Swooned sweet with perfume of her form. 
Her breast was warm, her breath was warm. 
And warm her warm and perfumed mouth 
As summer journeys through the south. 



The argent sea surged steep below, 
Surged languid in such tropic glow; 
And two great hearts kept surging so! 

The fervid kiss of heaven lay 
Precipitate on wood and sea. 
Two great souls glowed with ecstacy, 
The sea glowed scarce as warm as they. 



'Twas love's warm amber afternoon. 
Two far-off pheasants thrummed a tune, 
A cricket clanged a restful air. 
The dreamful billows beat a rune 
Like heart regrets. 

Around her head 
There shone a halo. Men have said 
'Twas from a dash of Titian 
That flooded all her storm of hair 
In gold and glory. But they knew, 
Yea, all men know there ever grew 
A halo round about her head 
Like sunlight scarcely vanished. 



How still she was! She only knew 

His love. She saw no life beyond. 

She loved with love that only lives 

Outside itself and selfishness, — 

A love that glows in its excess; 

A love that melts pure gold, and gives 

Thenceforth to all who come to woo 

No coins but this face stamped thereon, — 

Ay, this one image stamped upon 

Pure gold, with some dim date long gone. 

XXXIII. 

They kept the headland high; the ship 
Below began to chafe her chain. 
To groan as some great beast in pain: 
While white fear leapt from U]) to lip: 
" The woods on fire! the woods in flame! 
Come down and save us in God's name!" 

He heard! he did not speak or stir, — 
He thought of her, of only her. 
While flames behind, before them lay 
To hold the stoutest heart at bay! 

Strange sounds were heard far up the 
flood, 
Strange, savage sounds that chilled the 

blood! 
Then sudden from the dense, dark wood 



4 



78 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



Above, about them where they stood 
Strange, hairy beasts came peering out; 
And now was thrust a long black snout. 
And now a dusky mouth. It was 
A sight to make the stoutest pause. 

" Cut loose the ship!" the black mate 
cried; 
" Cut loose the ship!" the crew replied. 
They drove into the sea. It lay 
As light as ever middle day. 

And then a half-blind bitch that sat 
All slobber-mouthed, and monkish cowled 
With great, broad, floppy, leathern ears 
Amid the men, rose up and howled. 
And doleful howled her plaintive fears. 
While all looked mute aghast thereat. 
It was the grimmest eve, I think, 
That ever hung on Hades' brink. 
Great broad-winged bats possessed the air. 
Bats whirling blindly everywhere; 
It was such troubled twilight eve 
As never mortal would believe. 



Some say the crazed hag lit the wood 
In circle where the lovers stood; 
Some say the gray priest feared the crew 
Might find at last the hoard of gold 
Long hidden from the black ship's hold, — 
I doubt me if men ever knew. 
But such mad, howling, flame-lit shore 
No mortal ever knew before. 

Huge beasts above that shining sea, 
Wild, hideous beasts with shaggy hair. 
With red mouths lifting in the air. 
All piteous howled, and plaintively, — 
The wildest sounds, the weirdest sight 
That ever shook the walls of night. 

How lorn they howled, with lifted head. 
To dim and distant isles that lay 
Wedged tight along a line of red. 
Caught in the closing gates of day 



'Twixt sky and sea and far away, — 
It was the saddest sound to hear 
That ever struck on human ear. 

They doleful called; and answered they 
The plaintiff sea-cows far away, — 
The great sea-cows that called from isles, 
Away across red flaming miles, 
With dripping mouths and lolling tongue, 
As if they called for captured young, — 

The huge sea-cows that called the whiles 
Their great wide mouths were mouthing 

moss; 
And still they doleful called across 
From isles beyond the watery miles. 
No sound can half so doleful be 
As sea-cows calling from the sea. 



The sun, outdone, lay down. He lay 
In seas of blood. He sinking drew 
The gates of sunset sudden to, 
And they in shattered fragments lay. 
Then night came, moving in mad flame; 
Then full night, lighted as he came, 
As lighted by high summer sun 
Descending through the burning blue. 
It was a gold and amber hue. 
Aye, all hues blended into one. 

The moon came on, came leaning low. 
The moon spilled splendor where she 

came, 
And filled the world with yellow flame 
Along the far sea-isles aglow; 
She fell along that amber flood, 
A silver flame in seas of blood. 
It was the strangest moon, ah me! 
That ever settled on God's sea, 

XXXVI. 

Slim snakes slid down from fern and 
grass. 
From wood, from fen, from anywhere; 
You could not step, you would not pass, 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



79 



And you would hesitate to stir, 
Lest in some sudden, hurried tread 
Your foot struck some unbruised head: 

It seemed like some infernal dream; 
They slid in streams into the stream; 
They curved, and sinuous curved across, 
Like living streams of living moss, — 
There is no art of man can make 
A ripple like a swimming snake! 



Encompassed, lorn, the lovers stood, 
Abandoned there, death in the air! 
That beetling steep, that blazing wood — 
Red flame! red flame, and everywhere! 
Yet he was born to strive, to bear 
The front of battle. He would die 
In noble eff'ort, and defy 
The grizzled visage of despair. 

He threw his two strong arms full 
length 
As if to surely test their strength; 
Then tore his vestments, textile things 
That could but tempt the demon wings 
Of flame that girt them .round about. 
Then threw his garments to the air 
As one that laughed at death, at doubt. 
And like a god stood thawed and bare. 

She did not hesitate; she knew 
The need of action; swift she threw 
Her burning vestments by, and bound 
Her wondrous wealth of hair that fell 
An all-concealing cloud around 
Her glorious presence, as he came 
To seize and bear her through the flame, — 
An Orpheus out of burning hell! 

He leaned above her, wound his arm 
About her splendor, while the noon 
Of flood tide, manhood, flushed his face. 
And high flames leapt the high head- 
land!— 



They stood as twin-hewn statues stand, 
High lifted in some storied place. 

He clasped her close, he spoke of death, - 
Of death and love in the same breath. 
He clasped her close; her bosom lay 
Like ship safe anchored in some bay, 
Where never rage or rack of main 
Might even shake her anchor chain. 



The flames! They could not stand or 
stay; 
Beyond, the beetling steep, the sea! 
But at his feet a narrow way, 
A short steep path, pitched suddenly 
Safe open to the river's beach. 
Where lay a small white isle in reach, — 
A small, white, rippled isle of sand 
Where yet the two might safely land. 

And there, through smoke and flame, 
behold 
The priest stood safe, yet all appalled! 
He reached the cross; he cried, he called; 
He waved his high-held cross of gold. 
He called and called, he bade them fly 
Through flames to him, nor bide and 
die! 

Her lover saw; he saw, and knew 
His giant strength could bear her through. 
And yet he would not start or stir. 
He clasped her close as death can hold, 
Or dying miser clasp his gold, — 
His hold became a part of her. 

He would not give her up! He would 
Not bear her waveward though he could! 
That height was heaven; the wave was 

hell. 
He clasped her close, — what else had 

done 
The manliest man beneath the sun? 
Was it not well ? was it not well ? 



8o 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



O man, be glad! be grandly glad, 
And king-like walk thy ways of death! 
For more than years of bliss you had 
That one brief time you breathed her 

breath. 
Yea, more than years upon a throne 
That one brief time you held her fast, 
Soul surged to soul, vehement, vast, — 
True breast to breast, and all your own. 

Live me one day, one narrow night, 
One second of supreme delight 
Like that, and I will blow like chaflf 
The hollow years aside, and laugh 
A loud triumphant laugh, and I, 
King-like and crowned, will gladly die. 

Oh, but to wrap my love with flame! 
With flame within, with flame without! 
Oh, but to die like this, nor doubt — 
To die and know her still the same! 
To know that down the ghostly shore 
Snow-white she walks for ever more! 



He poised her, held her high in air, — 
His great strong limbs, his great arm's 

length! — 
Then turned his knotted shoulders bare 
As birth-time in his splendid strength. 
And strode with lordly, kingly stride 
To where the high and wood-hung edge 
Looked down, far down upon the molten 

tide. 
The flames leaped with him to the ledge. 
The flames leapt leering at his side. 



He leaned above the ledge. Below 
He saw the black ship grope and cruise, — 
A midge below, a mile below. 
His limbs were knotted as the thews 
Of Hercules in his death-throe. 



The flame! the flame! the envious 
flame! 
She wound her arms, she wound her hair 
About his tall form, grand and bare. 
To stay the fierce flame where it came. 

The black ship, like some moonlit 
wreck. 
Below along the burning sea 
Groped on and on all silently, 
With silent pigmies on her deck. 

That midge-like ship, far, far below; 
That mirage lifting from the hill! 
His flame-lit form began to grow, — 
To glow and grow more grandly still. 
The ship so small, that form so tall, 
It grew to tower over all. 

A tall Colossus, bronze and gold, 
As if that flame-lit form were he 
Who once bestrode the Khodian sea, 
And ruled the watery world of old: 
As if the lost Colossus stood 
Above that burning sea of wood. 

And she ! that shapely form upheld, 
Held high as if to touch the sky. 
What airy shape, how shapely high, — 
What goddess of the seas of eld! 

Her hand upheld, her high right hand, 
As if she would forget the land; 
As if to gather stars, and heap 
The stars like torches there to light 
Her hero's path across the deep 
To some far isle that fearful night. 



The envious flame, one moment leapt 
Enraged to see such majesty, 
Such scorn of death; such kingly scorn . ., 



THE SEA OF FIRE. 



8l 



Then like some lightning-riven tree 
They sank down in that flame — and 

slept. 
Then all was hushed above that steep 
So still that they might sleep and sleep, 
As when a Summer's day is born. 

At last! from out the embers leapt 
Two shafts of light above the night, — 
Two wings of flame that lifting swept 
In steady, calm, and upward flight; 
Two wings of flame against the white 
Far-lifting, tranquil, snowy cone; 



Two wings of love, two wings of light. 

Far, far above that troubled night, 

As mounting, mounting to God's throne. 



And all night long that upward light 
Lit up the sea-cow's bed below: 
The far sea-cows still calling so 
It seemed as they must call all night. 
All night! there was no night. Nay, nay. 
There was no night. The night that lay 
Between that awful eve and day, — 
That nameless night was burned away. 



Byron, Keats, Shelley, Browning, all poets, as a rule fled from the commercial centers, went out from under 
the mists and miik into the sunlight to sing. I warn the coming poet that as a poet his place is not in any 
city. Be advised, or have done with' aspiration to do new work or true work. The Old World has been written, 
written fully and bravely and well. It is only the vast, far. New World that needs you. He who is aiming to 
sit down in New York, or any city, and eat dinners that are cooked and seasoned by servants who are not given 
even as much time to go to church as were the slaves of the South, may be good enough and write well enough to 
please the city in these headlong days, but the real poet would rather house with a half savage and live on a 
sixpence iu some mountain village, as did Byron, than feast off the board of Madame Leo Himter in a city. I 
now built a cabin on the edge of Washington, for I had written my longest and worst and only unkind book, 
"The Baroness ot New York," on such dinners. This longest poem has been destroyed, all except "The Sea 
of Fire," written years before in the wilderness of Honduras and by the Oregon sea bank. Nor is Washing- 
ton a better place for work with soul or heart in it. Madame Leo Hunter is there also, persistent, numerous, 
superficial and soulless as in almost any great center. If I am cruel, O my coming poets, I am cruel to be kind. 
Go forth in the sun, away into the wilds or contentedly lay aside your aspirations of song. Now, mark you 
distinctly, I am not writing for nor of the poets of the Old World or the Atlantic seaboard. They have their 
work and their ways of work, great and good, but new no more. My notes are for the songless Alaskas, Canadas, 
Califomias, the Aztec lands and the Argentines that patiently await their coming prophets. For come they will; 
but I warn them they will have to gird themselves mightily and pass through fire, and perish, many a man; for 
these new worlds will be whistling, out of time, the tunes of the old, and the rich and the proud will say in their 
insolence and ignorance. "Pipe thus, for thus piped the famous pipers of old; piping of perished kings, of wars, 
of castle walls, of battling knights, and of maids betrayed Sing as of old or be silent, for we know not, 
we want not, and we will not, your seas of colors, your forests of perfumes, your mountains of melodies." 



82 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 
Part I. 

Primeval forests! virgin sod! 

That Saxon has not ravish'd yet, 
Lo ! peak on peak in stairioays set — 

In stepping stairs that reach to God ! 

Here loe are free as sea or loind, 
For here are set Time's snowy tents 
In everlasting battlements 

Against the march of Saxon mind. 



Far np in the liiish of tlie Amazou 
River, 
And mantled and hung in the tropical 

trees, 
There are isles as grand as the isles of 
seas. 
And the waves strike strophes, and keen 

reeds quiver. 
As the sudden canoe shoots past them 
and over 
The strong, still tide to the opposite 

shore. 
Where the blue-eyed men by the syca- 
more 
Sit mending their nets 'neath the vine- 
twined cover; 

Sit weaving the threads of long, strong 
grasses; 
They wind and they spin on the clumsy 

wheel, 
Into hammocks red-hued with the cochi- 
neal, 
To trade with the single black ship that 
passes, 



And still and slow as if half asleep, — 
A cunning old trader that loves to creep 
Cautious and slow in the shade of the 
shore. 

And the bhie-eyed men that are mild as 
the dawns — 

Oh, delicate dawns of the grand Andes! 

Lift up soft eyes that are deep like seas. 
And mild yet wild as the red- white fawns'; 

And they gaze into yours, then weave, 
then listen. 
Then look in wonder, then again weave 

on, 
Then again look wonder that yoii are 
not gone, 
While the keen reeds quiver and the bent 
waves glisten; 

But they say no word while they weave 
and wonder, 
Though they sometimes sing, voiced 

low like the dove. 
And as deep and as rich as their tropical 
love. 
With foreign old freightage of curious old [ A-weaving their net threads through and 
store, ' under. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



83 



A pure, true people you may trust are 
these 
That weave their threads where the 

quick leaves quiver; 
And this is their tale of the Isles of the 
river, 
And the why that their eyes are so blue 
like seas: 

The why that the men draw water and 
■bear 
The wine or the water in the wild boar 

skin, 
And do hew the wood and weave and 
spin, 
And so bear with the women full burthen 
and share. 

A curious old tale of a curious old time, 
That is told you betimes by a quaint 

old crone, 
Who sits on the rim of an island alone. 

As ever was told you in story or rhyme. 

Her brown, bare feet dip down to the river. 
And dabble and plash to her mono- 
tone. 
As she holds in her hands a strange 
green stone, 
And talks to the boat where the bent reeds 
quiver. 

And the quaint old crone has a singular 
way 
Of holding her head to the side and 

askew. 
And smoothing the stone in her palms 
all day 
Assaying " I've nothing at all for you," 
Until you have anointed her palm, and 
you 
Have touched on the delicate spring of 

a door 
That silver has opened perhaps before; 
For woman is woman the wide world 
through. 



The old near truth on the far new shore, 
I bought and I paid for it; so did you; 
The tale may be false or the tale may 
be true; 

I give as I got it, and who can more? 

If I have made journeys to difficult shores, 
And woven delusions iu innocent verse, 
If none be the wiser, why, who is the 
worse? 

The field it was mine, the fruit it is yours. 

A sudden told tale. You may read as you 

run. 

A part of it hers, some part is my own. 

Crude, and too carelessly woven and 

sown. 

As I sail'd on the Mexican seas in the sun. 

'Twas nations ago, when the Amazons 
were. 
That a fair young knight — says the 

quaint old crone, 
"With her head sidewise, as she smooths 
at the stone — 
Came over the seas, with his golden hair. 
And a great black steed, and glittering 
spurs. 
With a woman's face, with a manly 

frown, 
A heart as tender and as true as hers, 
And a sword that had come from cru- 
saders down. 

And fairest, and foremost in love as in 
war 
Was the brave young knight of the brave 

old days. 
Of all the knights, with their knightly 
ways, 
That had journey'd away to this world 

afar 
In the name of Spain; of the splendid few 
Who bore her banner iu the new-born 
world. 



84 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



From the sea rim iip to where cloiads are 
curl 'd, 
And condors beat with black wiugs the 
blue. 

He was boru, says the croue, where the 

brave are fair, 
And blown from the banks of the Guad- 

alqniver, 
And yet bhie-eyed, with the Celt's soft 

hair, 
With never a drop of the dark deep river 
Of Moorish blood that had swept through 

Spain, 
And plash'd the world with its tawny 

stain. 

He sat on his steed, and his sword was 

bloody 
With heathen blood: the battle was done; 
His heart rebell'd and rose with pity. 
For crown'd with fire, wreathed and ruddy 
Fell antique temples built up to the 
sun. 
Below on the plain lay the burning city 
At the conqueror's feet; the red street 

Btrown 
With dead, with gold, and with gods 
overthrown. 

And the heathen pour'd, in a helpless 
flood, 
With never a wail and with never a 

blow, 
At last, to even provoke a foe, 
Through gateways, wet with the pagan's 
blood. 

"Ho, forward! smite! " but the minstrel 
linger'd. 
He reach'd his hand and he touch'd the 
rein, 
He humm'd an air, and he toy'd and fin- 
ger'd 
The arching neck and the glossy mane. 



He rested the heel, he rested the hand. 
Though the thing was death to the man 

to dare 
To doubt, to question, to falter there, 

Nor heeded at all to the hot command. 

He wiped his steel on his black steed's 
mane. 
He sheathed it deep, then look'd at the 

sun, 
Then counted his comrades, one by 
one. 
With booty returning from the plunder'd 
plain. 

He lifted his face to the flashing snow, 
He lifted his shield of steel as he sang, 
And he flung it away till it clang'd and 
rang 

On the granite rocks in the plain below. 

He cross'd his bosom. Made overbold. 
He lifted his voice and sang, quite low 
At first, then loud in the long ago. 

When the loves endiired though the days 
grew old. 

They heard his song, the chief on the 

plain 
Stood up in his stirrups, and, sword in 

hand. 
He ciarsed and he call'd with a loiid 

command 
To the blue-eyed boy to return again; 
To lift his shield again to the sky. 
And come and surrender his sword or 

die. 

He wove his hand in the stormy mane, 
He lean'd him forward, he lifted the rein. 
He struck the flank, he wheel'd and 
sprang, 
And gaily rode in the face of the sun, 
And bared his sword and he bravely sang, 
" Ho! come and take it! " but there 
came not one. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



85 



Aud so he saugwith his face to the south: 
" I shall go; I shall search for the Ama- 
zon shore. 
Where the curses of man they are heard 
no more, 
And kisses alone shall embrace the mouth. 

"I shall journey in search of the Incan 
Isles, 

Go far and away to traditional land. 
Where love is queen in a crown of smiles, 

And battle has never imbrued a hand; 

"Where man has never despoil'd or trod; 

Where woman's hand with a woman's 
heart 

Has fashion'd an Eden from man apart, 
And walks in her garden alone with God. 

"I shall find that Eden, and all my years 
Shall sit and repose, shall sing in the 

sun; 
And the tides may rest or the tides may 
run, 
And men may water the world with tears; 

" And the years may come and the years 
may go, 
And men make war, may slay and be 
slain. 
But I not care, for I never shall know 
Of man, or of aught that is man's again. 

"The waves may battle, the winds may 

blow, 
The mellow rich moons may ripen and 

fall, 
The seasons of gold they may gather or 

go, 
The mono may chatter, the paroqiiet 
call, 
And I shall not heed, take note, or know, 
If the Fates befriend, or if ill befall. 
Of worlds without, or of worlds at all, 
Of heaven above, or of hades below." 



'Twas the song of a dream and the dream 

of a singer. 

Drawn fine as the delicate fibers of gold. 

And broken in two by the touch of a finger, 

And blown as the winds blow, rent and 

roll'd 
In dust, and spent as a tale that is told. 

Alas! for his dreams and the songs he sung; 

The beasts beset him; the serpents they 

hung, 

Eed-tougued and terrible, over his head. 

He clove aud he thrust with his keen, 

quick steel, 
He coax'd with his hand, he urged with 
his heel. 
Till his steel was broken, and his steed 
lay dead. 

He toil'd to the river, he lean'd intent 
To the wave, and away to the islands 

fair. 
From beasts that pursued, and he 
breathed a prayer; 
For soul and body were well-nigh spent. 

'Twas the king of rivers, and the Isles 
were near; 
Yet it moved so strange, so still, so 

strong. 
It gave no sound, not even the song 
Of a sea-bird screaming defiance or fear. 

It was dark and dreadfi;l ! Wide like an 
ocean, 
Much like a river but more like a sea. 
Save that there was naught of the turbu- 
lent motion 
Of tides, or of winds blown abaft, or a-lee. 

Yea, strangely strong was the wave and 

slow, 

And half-way hid in the dark, deep tide, 

Great turtles, they paddled them to aud fro, 

Aud away to the Isles aud the opposite 

side. 



86 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



The nnJe black boar through abxindant 
grass 
Stole down to the water and buried his 

nose, 
And cninch'd white teeth till the bubbles 
rose 
As white and as bright as are globes of 
glass. 

Yea, steadily moved it, mile upon mile. 
Above and below and as still as the air; 
The bank made slippery here and there 

By the slushing slide of the crocodfle. 

The great trees bent to the tide like slaves; 
They dipp'd their boughs as the stream 

swept on, 
And then drew back, then dipp'd and 
were gone 
Away to the sea with the resolute waves. 

The land was the tide's; the shore was 
undone; 
It look'd as the lawless, iinsatisfied seas 
Had thrust up an arm through the tan- 
gle of trees, 
And clutch'd at the citrons that grew in the 
sun; 

And clutch'd at the diamonds that hid in 

the sand, 
And laid heavy hand on the gold, and a 

hand 
On the redolent fruits, on the ruby-like 

wine. 
On the stones like the stars when the stars 

are divine; 

Had thrust through the rocks of the ribb'd 
Andes; 
Had wrested and fled; and had left a 

waste 
And a wide way strewn in precipitate 
haste, 
As he bore them away to the buccaneer seas. 



O, heavens, the eloquent song of the silence! 
Asleep lay the sun in the vines, on the sod, 
And asleep in the sun lay the green- 
girdled islands, 
As rock'd to their rest in the cradle of 
God. 

God's poet is silence! His song is un- 
spoken. 
And yet so profound, so loud, and so 
far, 
It fills you, it thrills you with measures 
unbroken, 
And as still, and as fair, and as far as a 
star. 

The shallow seas moan. From the first 
they have mutter'd, 
As a child that is fretted, and weeps at 
its will. . . 
The poems of God are too grand to be 
utter'd: 
The dreadfiTl deep seas they are loudest 
when still. 

"I shall fold my hands, for this is the 
river 
Of death," he said, "and the sea-green 
isle 
Is an Eden set by the Gracious Giver 

Wherein to rest." He listen'd the while. 
Then lifted his head, then lifted a hand 
Arch'd over his brow, and he lean'd and 
listen'd, — 

'Twas only a bird on a border of sand, — 
The dark stream eddied and gleam'd 

and glisteu'd. 
And the martial notes from the isle were 

gone, — 
Gone as a dream dies out with the 

dawn. 

'Twas only a bird on a border of sand, 
Slow piping, and diving it here and 
there, 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



87 



Slim, gray, aud shadowy, light as the 
air. 
That dipp'd below from a point of the 
laud. 

" Unto God a prayer and to love a tear. 
And Idie, " he said, "in a desert here. 
So deep that never a note is heard 
But the listless song of that soulless 
bird. 

" The strong trees lean in their love unto 
trees. 
Lock arms in their loves, and are so 
made strong. 
Stronger than armies; aye, stronger than 
seas 
That rush from their caves in a storm 
of song. 

"A miser of old, his last great treasure 
Flung far in the sea, and he fell and he 

died; 
And so shall I give, O terrible tide. 

To you my song aud my last sad measure. " 

He blew on a reed by the still, strong river. 
Blew low at first, like a dream, then 
long. 
Then loud, then loud as the keys that 
quiver, 
And fret and toss with their freight of 
song. 

He sang aud he sang with a resolute will. 
Till the mono rested above on his 

haunches. 
And held his head to the side aud was 

still,— 
Till a bird blown out of the night of 

branches 
Sang sadder than love, so sweeter thau 

sad, 
Till the boughs did burthen and the 

reeds did fill 
With beautiful birds, and the boj' was 

glad. 



Our loves they are told by the myriad- 
eyed stars. 
And love it is grand in a reasonable way. 
And fame it is good in its way for a day. 
Borne dusty from books and bloody from 

wars; 
Aud death, I say, is an absolute need, 
And a calm delight, and an ultimate 
good; 
But a soug that is blown from a watery 
reed 
By a soundless deep from a boundless 
wood. 
With never a hearer to heed or to prize 
But God and the birds aud the hairy 

wild beasts. 
Is sweeter than love, than fame, or 
than feasts. 
Or any thing else that is under the skies. 

The quick leaves quiver'd, and the sun- 
light danced; 
As the boy sang sweet, and the birds 

said, " Sweet;" 
And the tiger crept close, and lay low 
at his feet, 
And he sheathed his claws, as he listened 
entranced. 

The serpent that hung from the sycamore 

bough, 

And sway'd his head in a crescent above, 

Had folded his neck to the white limb now. 

And fondled it close like a great black 

love. 

But the hands grew weary, the heart wax'd 

faint. 
The loud notes fell to a far-oflf plaint, 
The sweet birds echo'd no more, "Oh, 

sweet," 
The tiger arose and unsheathed his 

claws. 
The sei-pent extended his iron jaws. 
And the frail reed shiverd aud fell at his 

feet. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



A sound on the tide! and he turn'd and 
cried, 
" Oh, give God thanks, for they come, 
they come! " 
He look'd out afar on the opaline tide, 
Then clasp'd his hands, and his lips 
■were dumb. 

A sweeping swift crescent of sudden 
canoes! 
As light as the sun of the south and as 

soon. 
And true and as still as a sweet half- 
moon 
That leans from the heavens, and loves and 
woos! 

The Amazons came in their martial pride, 
As full on the stream as a studding of 

stars. 
All girded in armor as girded in wars. 
In foamy white furrows dividing the 
tide. 

With a face as brown as the boatmen's are. 
Or the brave, brown hand of a harvester; 

The Queen on a prow stood splendid and 
tall, 

As the petulant waters did lift and fall; 

Stood forth for the song, half lean'd in 
surprise, 
Stood fair to behold, and yet grand to 

behold. 
And austere in her face, and satiirnine- 
soul'd. 
And sad and subdued, in her eloquent 
eyes. 



And sad were they all; yet tall and serene 

Of presence, but silent, and brow'd 

severe; 

As for some things lost, or for some fair, 

green. 

And beautiful place, to the memory dear. 

"O Motherof God! Thrice merciful saint! 
I am saved! " he said, and he wept out- 
right; 
Ay, wept as even a woman might. 
For the soul was full and the heart was 
faint. 

"Stay! stay! " cried the Queen, and she 
leapt to the land. 
And she lifted her hand, and she low- 
ered their spears, 
"A woman! a woman! ho! help! give a 
hand! 
A woman! a woman! I know by the 
tears." 

Then gently as touch of the truest of 
woman. 
They lifted him up from the earth where 

he fell. 
And into the boat, with a half hidden 
swell 
Of the heart that was holy and tenderly 
human. 

They spoke low- voiced as a vesper prayer; 
They pillowd his head as only the 

hand 
Of woman can pillow, and push'd from 
the land. 
And the Queen she sat threading the gold 
of his hair. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



89 



PART II. 

Forsake those People. What are they 
That laugh, that live, that love by rule? 
Forsake the. Saxon. Who are these 
That shun the shadows of the trees; 
The perfumed forests ? . . . Go thy way. 
We are not one. I tvill not please 
You. -^f are you well, wiser fool! 

But ye ivho love me : — Ye ivho love 
The shaggy forests, fierce delights 
Of sounding waterfalls, of heights 
That hang like broken moons above. 
With brows of pine that brush the sun. 
Believe and follow. We are one: 
The wild mail shall to us be tame, 
The woods shall yield their mysteries; 
The stars shall answer to a name. 
And be as birds above the trees. 



They swept to their Isles through the fur- 
rows of foam; 

They alit on the land, as love hastening 
home, 

And below the banana, with leaf like a 
tent, 
They tenderly laid him, they bade him 

take rest. 
They brought him strange fishes and 
fruits of the best. 

And he ate and took rest with a patient 
content. 

They watched so well that he rose up 

strong, 
And stood in their midst, and they said, 

" How fair! " 
And they said, "How tall!" And they 

toy'd with his hair. 



And they touched his limbs and they 

said, " How long 
And how strong they are; and how brave 
she is, 
That she made her way through the 

wiles of man. 
That she braved his wrath that she 
broke the ban 
Of his desolate life for the love of this! " 



They wrought for him armor and cunning 
attire. 
They brought him a sword and a great 

shell shield, 
And implored him to shiver the lance 
on the field. 
And to follow their beautiful Queen in 
her ire. 



90 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



But he took him apart; then the Amazons 
came 
And entreated of him with their elo- 
quent eyes 

And their earnest and passionate souls of 
flame, 
And the soft, sweet words that are 
broken of sighs, 

To be one of their own, but he still de- 
nied 

And bow'd and abash'd he stole further 
aside. 

He stood by the Palms and he lean'd in 
unrest, 
And standing alone, looked out and 

afar, 
For his own fair laud where the castles 
are, 
With irresolute arms on a restless breast. 

He re-lived his loves, he recall'd his wars, 
He gazed and he gazed with a soul dis- 

tress'd. 
Like a far sweet star that is lost in the 
west. 
Till the day was broken to a dust of stars. 

They sigh'd, and they left him alone in 
the care 
Of faithfullest matron; they moved to 

the field 
With the lifted sword and the sounding 
shield 
High fretting magnificent storms of hair. 

And, true as the moon in her march of 

stars. 

The Queen stood forth in her fierce 

attire 

Worn as they trained or worn in the wars, 

As bright and us chaste as a flash of fire. 

With girdles of gold and of silver cross'd. 
And plaited, and chased, and bound 
together, 



Broader and stronger than belts of 
leather. 
Cunningly fashiou'd and blazou'd and 
boss'd — 

With diamonds circling her, stone upon 
stone. 
Above the breast where the borders fail. 
Below the breast where the fringes zone, 
She moved in a glittering garment of 
mail. 

The form made hardy and the waist made 
spare 
From athlete sports and adventures 

bold. 
The breastplate; fasten'd with clasps of 
gold. 
Was clasp'd, as close as the breasts could 
bear, — 

And bound and drawn to a delicate span, 
It flash'd in the red front ranks of the 
field- 
Was fashion'd full trim in its intricate 
plan 
And gleam'd as a sign, as well as a 
shield. 

That the virgin Queen was unyielding 
still, 
And pure as the tides that around her 
ran; 
True to her trust, and strong in her will 
Of war, and hatred to the touch of man. 

The field it was theirs in storm or in 
shine. 
So fairly they stood that the foe came 

not 
To battle again, and the fair forgot 
The rage of battle; and they trimm'd the 
vine, 

They tended the fields of the tall green 
corn. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



91 



They cnish'd the grajDe auci they drew 

the wiue 
In the great round goiirds and the bended 

horn — 
And they lived as the gods in the days 

divine. 

They bathed in the wave in the amber 

morn, 

They took repose in the peaceful shade 

Of eternal palms, and were never afraid; 

Yet oft did they sigh, and look far and 

forlorn. 

Where the rim of the wave was weaving a 
spell, 
And the grass grew soft where it hid 

from the sun, 
"Would the Amazons gather them every 
one 
At the call of the Queen or the sound of 
her shell: 

Would come in strides through the kingly 
trees. 
And train and marshal them brave and 
well 
In the golden noon, in the hush of peace 
Where the shifting shades of the fau- 
pahns fell; 
Would train till flush'd and as warm as 
wine: 
Would reach with their limbs, would 

thrust with the lance, 
Attack, retire, retreat and advance. 
Then wheel in column, then fall in line; 
Stand thigh and thigh with the limbs 

made hard 
And rich and round as the swift limb'd 

pard, 
Or a racer train'd, or a white bull caught 
In the lasso's toils, where the tame are 
not: 

Would curve as the waves curve, swerve 
in line; 



Would dash through the trees, would 

train with the bow. 
Then back to the lines, now sudden, 

then slow, 
Then flash their swords in the sun at a 

sign: 

Would settle the foot right firmly afront. 
Then sound the shield till the sound 
was heard 
Afar, as the horn in the black boar 
hunt; 
Yet, strangest of all, say never one 
word . 

When shadows fell far from the westward, 

and when 
The sun had kiss'd hands and set forth 

for the east. 
They would kindle campfires and gather 

them then, 
Well-worn and most merry with song, 

to the feast. 

They sang of all things, but the one, 
sacred one. 
That could make them most glad, as 

they lifted the gourd 
And pass'd it around, with its rich purple 
hoard. 
From the island that lay with its face to 
the sun. 

Though lips were most luscious, and eyes 
as divine 
As the eyes of the skies that bend down 

from above; 
Though hearts were made glad and 
most mellow with love, 

As dripping gourds drain 'd of their bur- 
thens of wine; 

Though brimming, and dripping, and bent 
of their shape 

Were the generous gourds from the juice 
of the grape, 



92 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



They could sing not of love, they could 

breathe not a thought 
Of the savor of life; of love sought, or 

unsought. 

Their loves they were not; they had ban- 
ished the name 
Of man, and the uttermost mention of 

love, — 
The moonbeams about them, the quick 
stars above, 
The mellow-voiced waves, they were ever 

the same, 
In sign, and in sayiug, of the old true lies; 
But they took no heed; no answering 
sign. 
Save glances averted and half-hush'd sighs 
Went back from the breasts with their 
loves divine. 

They sang of free life with a will, and 
well, 
They had paid for it well when the price 
was blood; 
They beat on the shield, and they blew on 
the shell. 
When their wars were not, for they held 
it good 
To be glad, and to sing till the flush of the 
day, 
In an annual feast, when the broad leaves 

fell; 
Yet some sang not, and some sighed, 
"Ah, well ! "— 
For there 's far less left you to sing or to 

say. 
When mettlesome love is banisli'd, I ween — 
To hint at as hidden, or to half dis- 
close 
In the swift sword-cuts of the tongue, made 
keen 
With wine at a feast, — thau one would 
suppose. 

So the days wore by, but they brought no 
rest 



To the minstrel knight, though the sun 

was as gold, 
And the Isles were gi'een, and the great 

Queen blest 
In the splendor of arms, and as pure as 

bold. 

He would now resolve to reveal to her all. 
His sex and his race in a well-timed 

song; 
And his love of jseace, his hatred of 
wrong. 
And his own deceit, though the sun should 
fall. 

Then again he would linger, and knew not 

how 
He could best proceed, and deferr'd him 

now 
Till a favorite day, then the fair day 

came, 
And still he delaj^'d, and reproached him 

the same. 

And he still said nought, but, subduing 
his head. 
He wander'd one day in a dubious 
spell 
Of unutterable thought of the truth un- 
said, 
To the indolent shore, and he gather'd a 
shell, 
And he shaped its point to his passionate 
mouth, 
And he turu'd to a bank and began to 

blow. 
While the Amazons trained in a troop 
below — 
Blew soft and sweet as a kiss of the 
south. 

The Amazons lifted with glad surprise, 
Stood splendid and glad and look'd far 
and fair. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



Set forward a foot, aud shook back their 
hair, 
Like clouds push'd back from the sun-lit 
skies. 

It stirr'd their souls, and they ceased to 

train 
In troop by the shore, as the tremulous 

strain 
i'ell down from the hill through the tas- 

selling trees; 
And a murmur of song, like the sound of 

bees 



In the clover crown of a queenly spring. 
Came back unto him, and ho laid the 
shell 
Aside on the bank, and began to sing 
Of eloquent love; and the ancient 
spell 
Of passionate song was his, and the 
Isle, 
As waked to delight from its slumber 
long. 
Came back in echoes; yet all this while 
He knew not at all the sin of his 
song. 




94 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



PART III. 

Come, lovers, come, forget your pains f 
I know upon this earth a spot 

Where clinking coins, that clank as chains. 
Upon the souls of men, are not : 

Nor man is measured for his gains 

Of gold that stream loith crimson stains. 

There snow-topp'd toivers crush the clouds 
And break the still abode of stars. 

Like sudden ghosts in snoiuy shrouds. 
New broken through their earthly bars. 

And condors whet their crooked beaks 

On lofty limits of the peaks. 

O men that fret as frets the main ! 
You irk me with your eager gaze 
Down in the. earth Jor fat increase — 

Eternal talks of gold and gain. 

Your shallow toil, your shalloio loays. 

And breaks my soul across the shoal 

As breakers break on shalloio seas. 



They bared their brows to the palms above, 
But some look'd level into comrades' 

eyes, 
And they then remember'd that the 

thought of love 
Was the thing forbidden, and they sank 

in sighs. 

They turned from the training, to heed in 
throng 
To the old, old tale; and they trained 

no more. 
As he sang of love; and some on the 
shore, 
And full in the sound of the eloquent 
song. 



With womanly air and an irresohite will 
Went listlessly onward as gathering 

shells; 
Then gazed in the waters, as bound by 
spells; 
Then turned to the song and sosigh'd, and 
were still. 

And they said no word. Some tapp'd on 
the sand 
With the sandal'd foot, keeping time to 
the sound. 
In a sort of dream; some timed with the 
hand. 
And one held eyes fxill of tears to the 
ground. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



95 



She thought of the days wheu their wars 

they were not, 
As she leau'd aud listened to the old, old 

song, 
Wheu they sang of their loves, and she 

well forgot 
Man's hard oppressions and a world of 

wrong. 

Like a pure true woman, with her trust in 
tears 
And the things that are true, she re- 
lived them in thought, 
Though hush'd and crush'd in the fall of 
the years ; 
She lived but the fair, and the false she 
forgot. 

As a tale long told, or as things that are 

dreams 

The quivering curve of the lip it confest 

The silent regrets, and the soul that teems 

With a world of love in a brave true 

breast. 

Then this one, younger, who had known 
no love, 
Nor look'd upon man but in blood on 

the field. 
She bow'd her head, and she leaned on 
her shield. 
And her heart beat quick as the wings of 

a dove 
That is blown from the sea, where the rests 
are not 
In the time of storms; and by instinct 

taught 
Grew pensive, and sigh'd; as she thought 
and she thought 
Of some wonderful things, aud^she knew 
not of what. 

Then this one thought of a love forsaken, 
She thoiTght of a brown sweet babe, 
and she thought 



Of the bread-fruits gather'd, of the swift 
fish taken 
In intricate nets, like a love well sought. 

She thought of the moons of her maiden, 
dawn, 
Mellow'd and fair with the forms of man; 
So dearer indeed to dwell upon 

Than the beautiful waves that around 
her ran: 

So fairer indeed than the fringes of light 
That lie at rest on the west of the sea 

In furrows of foam on the borders of night, 
And dearer indeed than the songs to be — 

Than calling of dreams from the opposite 
land. 
To the land of life, and of journeys 

dreary. 
When the soul goes over^from the form 
grown weary, 
And walks in the cool of the trees on the 
sand. 

But the Queen was enraged and would 

smite him at first 
With the sword unto death, yet it seemed 

that she durst 
Not touch him at all; aud she moved as to 

chide. 
And she lifted her face, and she frown'd 

at his side. 
Then she touch'd on his arm; then she 

looked in his eyes 
And right full in his soul, but she saw 

no fear, 
In the pale fair face, and with frown 

severe 
She press'd her lips as suppressing her 

sighs. 

She bauish'd her wrath, she unbended her 
face, 
She lifted her hand and jjut back his 
hair 



o6 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



From his fair sad brow, with a penitent 
air. 
And forgave him all with unuttered grace. 

But she said no word, yet no more was 
severe; 
She stood as subdued by the side of him 

still, 
Then averted her face with a resolute 
will. 
As to hush a regret, or to hide back a tear. 

She sighed to herself: "A stranger is this, 

And ill and alone, that knows not at all 

That a throne shall totter and the strong 

shall fall. 

At the mention of love and its banefullest 

bliss, 

"O life that is lost in bewildering love — 
But a stranger is sacred!" She lifted a 

hand 
And she laid it as soft as the breast of a 

dove 
On the minstrel's mouth. It was more 

than the wand 
Of the tamer of serpents, for she did no 

more 
Than to bid with her eyes and to beck 

with her hand. 
And the song drew away to the waves of 

the shore; 
Took wings, as it were, to the verge of the 

land. 

But her heart was oppress'd. With peni- 
tent head 

She turned to her troop, and retiring, she 
said: 

" Alas! and alas! shall it come to pass 

That the panther shall die from a blade of 
grass ? 

That the tiger shall yield at the bent- 
horn's blast ? 



That we, who have conquer'd a world 

and all 
Of men and of beasts in the world must 

fall 
Ourselves at the mention of love at last?" 

The tall Queen turu'd with her troop; 
She led minstrel and all to the in- 
nermost part 
Of the palm-crowned Isle, where great 

trees group 
In armies, to battle when black-storms 

start. 
And made a retreat from the sun by the 
trees 
That are topp'd like tents, where the 

fire-flies 
Are a light to the feet, and a fair lake lies, 
As cool as the coral-set centers of seas. 

The palm-trees lorded the copse like kings. 
Their tall tops tossing the indolent 

clouds 
That folded the Isle in the dawn, like 
shrouds, 
Then fled from the sun like to living 
things. 

The cockatoo swung in the vines below, 
And muttering hung on a golden thread, 

Or moved on the moss'd bough to and fro, 
In plumes of gold and array'd in red. 

The lake lay hidden away from the light. 
As asleep in the Isle from the tropical 

noon. 
And narrow and bent like a new-born 
moon. 
And fair as a moon in the noon of the 
night. 

'Twas shadow'd by forests, and fringed by 
ferns. 
And fretted anon by red fishes that leapt 
At indolent flies that slept or kept 

Their drowsy tones on the tide by turns. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



97 



And here in the dawn when the Day was 
strong 
And newly aronsed from leafy repose, 
With dews on his feet and tints of the 
rose 
In his great flush'd face was a sense of 

song 
That the tame old world has nor known 
nor heard. 

The soul was filled with the soft per- 
fumes, 
The eloquent wings of the humming bird 
Beguiled the heart, they purpled the air 
And allured the eye, as so everywhere 
On the rim of the wave or across it in 
swings, 
They swept or they sank in a sea of 
blooms. 
And wove and wound in a song of wings. 

A bird in scarlet and gold, made mad 
With sweet delights, through the 

branches slid 
And kiss'd the lake on a drowsy lid 

Till the ripples ran and the face was glad; 

Was glad and lovely as lights that sweep 
The face of heaven when the stars are 

forth 
In autumn time through the sapphire 
north. 
Or the face of a child when it smiles in 
sleep. 

And here came the Queen, in the tropical 
noon, 
When the wars and the world and all 

were asleep. 
And nothing look'd forth to betray or to 
peep 
Through the glories of jungle in garments 
of June, 
To bathe with her court in the waters 
that bent 
In the beautiful lake through tasseling 
trees, 



And the tangle of blooms in a burden of 
bees. 
As bold and as sharp as a bow unspent. 

And strangely still, and more strangely 
sweet. 
Was the lake that lay in its cradle of 

fern. 
As still as a moon with her horns that 
turn 
In the night, like lamps to white delicate 
feet. 

They came and they stood by the brink of 
the tide. 
They hung their shields on the boughs 
of the trees. 
They lean'd their lances against the side, 
Unloosed their sandals, and busy as bees 
Ungather'd their robes in the rustle of 
leaves 
That wound them as close as the wine-vino 
weaves. 

The minstrel then falter'd, and further 
aside 

Thau ever before he averted his head; 
He pick'd up a pebble and fretted the tide 

Afar, with a countenance flushed and red. 

He feign'd him ill, he wander'd away. 
He sat him down by the waters alone, 

And pray'd for pardon, as a knight should 
pray. 
And rued an error not all his own. 

The Amazons press'd to the girdle of reeds, 
Two and by two they advanced to the 

tide, 
They challenged each other, they laughed 
in their pride, 
And banter'd, and vaunted of valorous 
deeds. 

They push'd and they parted the curtains 
of green, 
All timid at first; then looked in the wave 



98 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



And laugh'd; retreated, then came np 
brave 
To the brink of the water, led on by their 
Qiieen. 

Again they retreated, again advanced, 
Then parted the boxighs in a proud dis- 
dain, 
Then bent their heads to the waters, and 
glanced 
Below, then bhish'd, and then laughed 
again. 

A bird awaken'd; then all dismayed 

With a womanly sense of a beautiful 

shame 
That strife and changes had left the same. 
They shrank to the leaves and the somber 
shade. 

At last, press'd forward a beautiful pair 
And leapt to the wave, and laughing they 

bhished 
As rich as their wines; when the waters 
rush'd 
To the dimpled limbs, and laugh'd in their 
hair. 

The fair troop follow'd with shouts and 
cheers, 
They cleft the wave, and the friendly 

ferns 
Came down in c\irtains and curves by 
turns, 
And a brave palm lifted a thousand spears. 

From under the ferns and away from the 
land, 
And out in the wave until lost below, 
There lay, as white as a bank of snow, 

A long and beautiful border of sand. 

Here clothed alone in their clouds of hair 
And curtain'd about by the palm and f eru. 

And made as their maker had made them, 
fair. 
And splendid of natural curve and turn; 



Untrammel'dbyartaud untroubled by man 
They tested their strength, or tried 
their speed: 

And here they wrestled, and there they ran, 
As supple and lithe as the watery reed. 

The great trees shadow'd the bow-tipp'd 

tide, 
And nodded their plumes from the oppo- 
site side. 
As if to whisper. Take care! take care! 
But the meddlesome sunshine here and 
there 
Kept pointing a finger right under the 
trees, — 
Kept shifting the branches and wagging 

a hand 
At the round brown limbs on the border 
of sand. 
And seem'd to whisper. Fie! what are 
these ? 

The gold-barr'd butterflies to and fro 
And over the waterside wander'd and 

wove 
As heedless and idle as clouds that rove 

And drift by the peaks of perpetual snow. 

A monkey swung out from a bough in the 
skies, 
White-whisker'd and ancient, and wisest 

of all 
Of his populous race, when he heard 
them call 
And he watch'd them long, with his head 
sidewise. 

He wondered much and he watched them 

all 
From under his brows of amber and brown. 
All patient and silent, and never once 

stirr'd 
Till he saw two wrestle, and wrestling 
fall; 
Then he arched his brows and he hasten'd 
him down 
To his army below and said never a word. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



99 



PART IV. 

There is Tnany a love in the land, my love. 

But never a love like this is; 
Then kill me dead with your love, my love. 

And cover me up with kisses. 

Yea, kill me dead and cover me deep 

Where never a soul discovers; 
Deep in your heart to sleep, to sleep. 

In the darlingest tomb of lovers. 



The wanderer took him apart from the 
place; 
Look'd up in the boughs at the gold 

birds there. 
He envied the hiamming-birds fretting 
the air. 
And frowned at the butterflies fanning his 
face. 

He sat him down in a crook of the wave 
And away from the Amazons, under the 
skies 
Where great trees curved to a leaf-lined 
cave, 
And he lifted his hands and he shaded 
his eyes : 

And he held his head to the north when 
they came 
To run on the reaches of sand from the 

south, 
And he puU'd at his chin, and he pursed 
his mouth, 
And he shut his eyes, with a sense of 
shame. 

He reach'd and he shaped a bamboo reed 

From the brink below, and began to blow 
As if to himself; as the sea sometimes 



Does soothe and soothe in a low, sweet 

song. 
When his rage is spent, and the beach 

swells strong 
With sweet repetitions of alliterate rhymes. 

The echoes blew back from the indolent 
land; 
Silent and still sat the tropical bird. 
And only the sound of the reed was 
heard, 
As the Amazons ceased from their sports 
on the sand. 

They rose from the wave, and inclining 
the head, 
They listened intent, with the delicate 

tip 
Of the finger touch'd to the pouting lip. 
Till the brown Queen turn'd in the tide, 
and led 
Through the opaline lake, and under 

the shade, 
To the shore where the chivalrous sing- 
er played. 

He bended his head and he shaded his eyes 
As well as he might with his lifted 
fingers, 



lOO 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



And ceased to sing. But in mute surprise 
He saw them linger as a child that 

lingers 
Allured by a song that has ceased in the 
street, 
And looks bewilder'd about from its play, 
For the last loved notes that fell at its 
feet. 

How the singer was vexed; he averted his 
head; 
He lifted his eyes, looked far and wide 
For a brief, little time; but they bathed 
at his side 
In spite of his will, or of prayers well said. 

He press'd four fingers against each lid. 
Till the light was gone; yet for all that he 

did 
Itseem'd that the lithe forms lay and beat 
Afloat in his face and full under his feet. 

He seem'd to behold the billowy breasts, 
And the rounded limbs in the rest or un- 
rests — 
To see them swim as the mermaid swims, 
With the drifting, dimpled delicate limbs, 
Folded or hidden or reach'd or caress'd. 

It seems to me there is more that sees 
Than the eyes in man; you may close 

your eyes. 
You may turn your back, and may still 
be wise 
In sacred and marvelous mysteries. 
He saw as one sees the sun of a noou 
lu the sun-kiss'd south, when the eyes 
are closed — 
He saw as one sees the bars of a moon 
That fall through the boughs of the tropi- 
cal trees, 
When he lies at length, and is all com- 
posed, 
And asleep in his hammock by the sun- 
down seas. 



He heard the waters beat, bubble and fret; 
He lifted his eyes, yet forever they lay 
Afloat in the tide; and he turn'd him away 

And resolved to fly and for aye to forget. 

He rose up strong, and he cross'd him 

twice, 

He nerved his heart and he lifted his 

head, 

He crnsh'd the treachei-otxs reed in a trice, 

With an angry foot, and he turn'd and 

fled. 
Yet flying, he hurriedly turn'd his head 
With an eager glance, with meddlesome 

eyes, 
As a woman will tui*n; and he saw arise 
The beautiful Queen from the silvery 
bed. 

She toss'd back her hair, and she turu'd 

her eyes 

With all of their splendor to his as he 

fled; 

Ay, all their glory, and a strange surprise. 

And a sad reproach, and a world unsaid. 

Then she struck their shields, they rose in 
array. 
As roused from a trance, and hurriedly 
came 
From out of the wave. He wander'd 
away, 
Still fretting his sensitive soul with 
blame. 

Alone he sat in the shadows at noon. 
Alone he sat by the waters at night; 
Alone he sang, as a woman might. 

With pale, kind face to the jDale, cold moon. 

He would here advance, and would there 
retreat, 
As a petulant child that has lost its way 
In the redolent walks of a sultry day, 

And wanders around with irresolute feet. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



lOI 



He made him a harp of mahogany wood, 
He strung it well with the sounding 

strings 
Of a strong bird's thews, and from ostrich 
wings, 
And play'd and sang in a sad, sweet nine. 
He hang'd his harp iu the vines, and 
stood 
By the tide at night, in the palms at noon. 
And lone as a ghost in the shadowy 
wood. 

Then two grew sad, and alone sat she 
By the great, strong stream, and she 

bow'd her head, 
Then lifted her face to the tide, and said, 
"O, pure as a tear and as strong as a sea. 

Yet tender to me as the touch of a dove, 
I had rather sit sad and alone by thee, 
Than to go and be glad, with a legion in 
love." 

She sat one time at the wanderer's side 
As the kingly water went wandering by; 
And the two once look'd, and they knew 
not why, 
Full sad in each other's eyes, and they 
sigh'd. 

She courted the solitude imder the rim 
Of the trees that reach'd to the resolute 

stream, 
And gazed in the waters as one in a 
dream. 
Till her soul grew heavy and her eyes 
grew dim. 

She bow'd her head with a beautiful grief 
That grew from her pity; she forgot 

her arms. 
And she made neglect of the battle 
alarms 
That threaten'd the land; the banana's 

leaf 
Made shelter; he lifted his harp again, 



She sat, she listen'd intent and long. 
Forgetting her care and forgetting her 

pain — 
Made sad for the singer, made glad for 

his song. 



And the women waxed cold; the white 
moons waned. 
And the brown Queen marshall'd them 

never once more. 
With sword and with shield, in the 
palms by the shore ; 
But they sat them down to repose, or 

remain'd 
Apart and scatter'd in the tropic-leaf'd 
trees, 
As sadden'd by song, or for loves de- 

lay'd; 
Or away in the Isle in couples they 
stray'd, 
Not at all content in their Isles of peace. 

They wander'd away to the lakes once 
more, 
Or walk'd in the moon, or they sigh'd, 
or slept. 
Or they sat in pairs by the shadowy 
shore. 
And silent song with the waters kept. 

There was one who stood by the waters 
one eve. 
With the stars on her hair, and the bars 

of the moon 
Broken up at her feet by the bountiful 
boon 
Of extending old trees, who did question- 
ing grieve; 

" The birds they go over us two and by 

two; 
The mono is mated; his bride in the 

boughs 
Sits nursing his babe, and his passionate 

vows 



I02 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



Of love, you may hear them the whole day 
through. 

"The lizard, the cayman, the white- 
toot h'd boar, 
The serpents that glide in the sword- 

leaf'd grass, 
The beasts that abide or the birds that 
pass. 
They are glad in their loves as the green- 
leaf'd shore. 

" There is nothing that is that can yield 
one bliss 
Like an innocent love; the leaves have 

tongue 
And the tides talk low in the reeds, and 
the young 
And the quick buds open their lips but 
for this. 

" In the steep and the starry silences. 
On the stormy levels of the limitless 

seas, 
Or here in the deeps of the dark-brow'd 
trees. 
There is nothing so much as a brave 
man's kiss. 

"There is nothing so strong, in the 
stream, on the land. 
In the valley of palms, on the pinnacled 

snow. 
In the clouds of the gods, on the grasses 
below, 
As the silk-soft touch of a baby's brown 
hand. 

"It were better to sit and to spin on a 
stone 
The whole year through with a babe at 

the knee. 
With its brown hands reaching caress- 
ingly, 
Than to sit in a girdle of gold and alone. 



"It were better indeed to be mothers of 
men. 
And to murmur not much; there are 

clouds in the sun. 
Can a woman undo what the gods have 
done? 
Nay, the things must be as the things 
have been." 

They wander'd well forth, some here and 
some there, 
Unsatisfied some and irresolute all. 
The sun was the same, the moonlight 
did fall 
Eich-barr'd and refulgent; the stars were 

as fair 
As ever were stars; the fruitful clouds 
cross 'd 
And the harvest fail'd not; yet the fair 

Isles grew 
As a prison to all, and they search d on 
through 
The magnificent shades as for things that 
were lost. 

The minstrel, more pensive, went deep in 
the wood, 
And oft-time delay'd him the whole day 

through, 
As charm'd by the deeps, or the sad 
heart drew 
Some solaces sweet from the solitude. 

The singer forsook them at last, and the 
Queen 
Came seldom then forth from the fierce 

deep wood. 
And her warriors, dark-brow'd and be- 
wildering stood 
In bands by the wave in the complicate 

screen 
Of overbent boughs. They would lean on 
their spears 
And would sometimes talk, low-voiced 
and by twos. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



103 



As allured by longings they could not 
refuse, 
And would sidewise look, as beset by their 
fears. 

Once, wearied and sad, by the shadowy 
trees 
In the flush of the sun they sank to 

their rests. 
The dark hair veiling the beautiful 
breasts 
That arose in billows, as mists veil seas. 

Then away to the dream-world one by 
one; 
The great red sun in his purple was 

roll'd. 
And red-wing'd birds and the birds of 
gold 
Were above in the trees like the beams of 
the sun. 

Then the sun came down, on his ladders 
of gold 
Built up of his beams, and the souls 

arose 
And ascended on these, and the fair re- 
pose 
Of the negligent forms was a feast to be- 
hold. 

The round brown limbs they were reach'd 
or drawn, 
The grass made dark with the fervour of 

hair; 
And here were the rose-red lips and there 
A flush'd breast rose like a sun at a 
dawn. 

Then black-wing'd birds flew over in pair, 
Listless and slow, as they call'd of the 

seas 
And sounds came down through the 
tangle of trees 
As lost, and nestled, and hid in their 
hair. 



They started disturb'd, they sprang as at 
war 
To lance and to shield; but the dolorous 

sound 
Was gone from the wood; they gazed 
around 
And saw but the birds, black-wing'd and 
afar. 



They gazed at each other, then turn'd 
them unheard. 
Slow trailing their lances, in long single 

line; 
They moved through the forest, all dark 
as the sign 
Of death that fell down from the ominous 
bird- 

Then the great sun died, and a rose-red 
bloom 
Grew over his grave in a border of 

gold, 
And a cloud with a silver-white rim was 
roll'd 
Like a cold gray stone at the door of his 
tomb. 



Strange voices were heard, sad visions 
were seen, 
By sentries, betimes, on the opposite 
shore, 
Where broad boughs bended their curtains 
of green 
Far over the wave with their tropical 
store. 

A sentry bent low on her palms and she 
peer'd 
Suspiciously through; and, heavens! a 
man, 
Low-brow'd and wicked, looked backward, 
and jeer'd 
And taunted right full in her face as he 
ran: 



I04 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



A low crooked man, with eyes like a 


A sudden canoe down the mid of the 


bird, — 


stream, 


As round and as cunning, — who came from 


Like the dark boat of death, and as still 


the land 


as a thought. 


Of lakes, where the clouds lie low and 




at hand, 


And lo! as it pass'd, from the prow there 


And the songs of the bent black swans are 


arose 


heard; 


A dreadful and gibbering, hairy old 


Where men are most cunning and cruel 


man. 


withal. 


Loud laughing as only a maniac can. 


And are famous as spies, and are supple 


And shaking a lance at the land of his 


and fleet, 


foes; 


And are webb'd like the water-fowl under 


Then sudden it vanish'd, as still as it 


the feet. 


came, 


And they swim like the swans, and like 


Far down through the walls of the 


pelican's call. 


shadowy wood, 




And the great moon rose like a forest 


And again, on a night when the moon she 


aflame. 


was not. 


All threat'ning, sullen, and red like 


A sentry saw stealing, as still as a dream, 


blood. 




I 

i 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



105 



PART V. 

Well, we have threaded through and through 
The gloaming forests, Fairy Isles, 
Afloat in sun and summer smiles. 
As fallen stars hi fields of blue ; 
Some futile wars with subtile love 
That mortal never vanquished yet. 
Some symphonies by angels set 
In wave below, in bough above. 
Were yours and mine; but here adieu. 

And if it come to pass some days 
That you grow weary, sad, and you 
Lift up deep eyes from dusty ways 
Of mart and moneys to the blue 
And pure cold waters, isle and vine. 
And bathe you there, and then arise 
Refreshed by one fresh thought of mine, 
I rest content: I kiss your eyes, 
I kiss your hair, in my delight: 
I kiss my hand, and say, " Good-nighi." 



I tell you that love is the bitterest sweet 
That evei' laid hold on the heart of a 

man; 
A chain to the soul, and to cheer as a 
ban, 
And a bane to the brain and a snare to the 
feet. 

Aye! who shall ascend on the hollow white 
wings 
Of love but to fall; to fall and to learn, 
Like a moth, or a man, that the lights 
lure to burn, 
That the roses have thorns and the honey- 
bee stings ? 

I say to you surely that grief shall be- 
fall; 
I lift you my finger, I caution you true, 



And yet you go forward, laugh gaily, 
and you 
Must learn for yourself, then lament for 
us all. 

You had better be drown'd than to love 
and to dream. 
It were better to sit on a moss-grown 

stone. 
And away from the sun, forever alone, 
Slow pitching white pebbles at trout in a 
stream. 

Alas for a heart that must live forlorn! 
If you live you must love; if you love, 
regret — 
It were better, perhaps, had you never 
been born. 
Or better, at least, you could well forget. 



io6 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



The clouds are above us and snowy and 
cold. 
And what is bej'ond but the steel gray 

sky, 
And the still far stars that twinkle and 
lie 
Like the eyes of a love or delusions of 
gold! 

Ah! who would ascend ? The clouds are 
above. 

Aye! all things perish; to rise is to fall. 
And alack for lovers, and alas for love, 

And alas that we ever were born at all. 



The minstrel now stood by the border of 

wood, 
But now not alone; with a resolute heart 
He reach'd his hand, like to one made 

strong, 
Forgot his silence and resumed his 

song. 
And aroused his soul, and assumed his 

part 
With a passionate will, in the palms where 

he stood. 

" She is sweet as the breath of the Castile 
rose. 
She is warm to the heart as a world of 
wine. 
And as rich to behold as the rose that 
grows 
With its red heart bent to the tide of the 
Ehine. 

" I shall sip her lips as the brown bees sxap 

From the great gold heart of the buttercup ! 

I shall live and love ! I shall have my 

day. 
And die in my time, and who shall gain- 
say ? 
" What boots me the battles that I have 
have fought 



With self for honor ? My brave resolves? 
And who takes note ? The soul dissolves 
In a sea of love, and the wars are forgot. 

"The march of men, and the drift of 
ships. 
The dreams of fame, and desires for gold, 
Shall go for aye as a tale that is told, 
Nor divide for a day my lips from her 
lips. 

"And a knight shall rest, and none shall 
say nay. 
In a green Isle wash'd by an arm of the 

seas. 
And walled from the world by the white 
Andes: 
The years are of age and can go their 
way." 

A sentinel stood on the farthermost land, 
And struck her shield, and her sword in 
hand, 
She cried, " He comes with his silver 
spears. 
With flint-tipp'd arrows and bended bows, 
To take our blood though we give him 
tears. 
And to flood our Isle in a world of woes! 

"He comes, O Queen of the sun-kiss'd 
Isle, 
He comes as a wind comes, blown from 

the seas, 
In a cloud of canoes, on the curling 
breeze. 
With his shields of tortoise and of croco- 
dile!" 



Sweeter than swans' are a maiden's graces ! 

Sweeter than fruits are the kisses of 
morn ! 

Sweeter than babies' is a love new-born. 
But sweeter than ah are a love's embraces. 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



107 



The Queeu was at peace. Her terms of 
surrender 

To love, who knows ? and who can defend 
her? 

She slept at peace, and the sentry's warn- 
ing 
Could scarce awaken the love-conquer'd 

Queen; 
She slept at peace in the opaline 

Hush and blush of that tropical morning; 

And bound about by the twining glory, 
Vine and trellis in the vernal morn, 
As still and sweet as a babe new-born. 

The brown Queen dream'd of the old new 
story. 

But hark! her sentry's passionate words, 
The sound of shields, and the clash of 

swords! 
And slow she came, her head on her 

breast, 
And her two hands held as to plead for 

rest. 

Where, O where, wei's the Juno graces? 

Where, O where was the glance of Jove, 
As the Queen came forth from the sacred 
places. 

Hidden away in the heart of the grove? 

They rallied around as of old, — they be- 
sought her. 
With swords to the sun and the sound- 
ing shield. 
To lead them again to the glorious field. 
So sacred to Freedom; and, breathless, 

they brought her 
Her buckler and sword, and her armor all 
bright 
With a thousand gems eujewell'd in gold. 
She lifted her head with the look of old 
An instant only; with all of her might 
She sought to be strong and majestic 
again: 



She bared them her arms and her ample 

brown breast; 
They lifted her armor, they strove to 

invest 
Her form in armor, but they strove in 

vain. 
It could close no more, but it clang'd on 

the ground. 
Like the fall of a knight, with an ominous 

sound. 
And she shook her hair and she cried 

"Alas! 
That love should come and liberty pass;" 
And she cried, ' ' Alas ! to be cursed .... and 

bless'd 
For the nights of love and noons of rest." 

Her warriors wonder 'd; they wander'd 
apart. 
And trail'd their swords, and subdued 

their eyes 
To earth in sorrow and in hush'd sur- 
prise. 
And forgot themselves in their pity of 
heart. 

"O Isles of the sun," sang the blue-eyed 
youth, 
"O Edens new-made and let down from 

above! 
Be sacred to peace and to passionate 
love. 
Made happy in peace and made holy with 
truth." 

The fair Isle fill'd with the fierce invader; 
They form'd on the strand, they lifted 

their spears. 
Where never was man for years and for 
years. 
And moved on the Queen. She lifted and 

laid her 
Finger-tip to her lips. For O sweet 

Was the song of love as the love new- 
born. 



io8 



ISLES OF THE AMAZONS. 



That the minstrel blew in the virgin 
morn, 
Away where the trees and the soft sands 
meet. 

The strong men lean'd and their shields 
let fall, 
And slowly they came with their trail- 
ing spears, 
And heads bow'd down as if bent with 
years, 
And an air of gentleness over them all. 

The men grew glad as the song ascended. 
They lean'd their lances against the 
palms, 



They reach'd their arms as to reach for 
alms, 
And the Amazons came — and their reign 
was ended. 



The tawny old crone here lays her stone 

On the leaning grass and reaches a hand; 

The day like a beautiful dream has flown. 

The curtains of night come down on the 

laud, 
And I dip to the oars; but ere I go, 
I tip her an extra bright pesos or so. 
And I smile my thanks, for I think them 

due: 
But, reader, fair reader, now what think 

you? 



I do not like this, although 1 have cut it up and cut it down, and worked it over and over more than anything 
else. I had seen this vast and indescribable country, but not absorbed it; and that, most likely, is the reason 
it seems artificial and foolish, with knights and other things that I know nothing about. The only thing that I 
like in it is the water. I can handle water, and water is water the world 'over. But had it not been for the 
water and some of the wild tangles and jungles the whole thing would, ere this, have gone where the biggest 
half went long since. It was written in San Francisco, and was published at the same time in the Overland 
there and the OentUman't Maqazlne in London. It was written at the instance of the Emperor, who translated 
it and to the last was brave and courtly enough to insist that it was good work. I had hoped to induce people to 
pour out of crowded London and better their fortunes there; for there is great wealth far, far up the Amazon. 
Aye, what exultant praise swelled my heart one happy day in Rome when Partridge, our minister to Brazil, gave 
me that message of thanks from the good Emperor, with a request to make his home my own while he lived. 



I 



AN INDIAN SUMMER. 



109 



AN INDIAN SUMMER. 

The world it is wide; men go their ways 
But love he is wise, and of all the hours, 
And of all the beautiful sun-horn days, 
He sips their sweets as the bee sijjs flowers. 



The sunlight lay in gather'd sheaves 
Along the ground, the golden leaves 
Possess'd the land and lay in bars 
Above the lifted lawn of green 
Beneath the feet, or fell, as stars 
Fall, slantwise, shimmering and still 
Upon the plain, upon the hill, 
And heaving hill and plain between. 

Some steeds in panoply were seen, 
Strong, martial trained, with manes in air, 
And tassell'd reins and mountings rare; 
Some silent people here and there, 
That gather'd leaves with listless will, 
Or moved adown the dappled green, 
Or look'd awa with idle gaze 
Against the gold and purple haze. 
You might have heard red leaflets fall, 
The pheasant on the farther hill, 
A single, lonelj-, locust trill. 
Or sliding, sable cricket call 
From out the grass, but that was all. 

A wanderer of many lands 
Was I, a weary Ishmaelite, 
That knew the sign of lifted hands; 
Had seen the Crescent-mosques, had seen 
The Druid oaks of Aberdeen — 
Kecross'd the hilly seas, and saw 
The sable pines of Mackinaw, 
And lakes that lifted cold and white. 

I saw the sweet Miami, saw 
The swift Ohio bent and roll'd 



Between his woody walls of gold, 
The Wabash banks of gray pawpaw. 
The Mississippi's ash; at morn 
Of autumn, when the oak is red. 
Saw slanting pyramids of corn, 
The level fields of spotted swine. 
The crooked lanes of lowing kine. 
And in the burning bushes saw 
The face of God, with bended head. 

But wheu I saw her face, I said, 
"Earth has no fruits so fairly red 
As these that swing above my head; 
No purpled leaf, no poppied land. 
Like this that lies in reach of hand," 

And, soft, UQto myself I said: 
" O soul, inured to rue and rime. 
To barren toil and bitter bread, 
To biting rime, to bitter rue. 
Earth is not Nazareth; be good. 
O sacred Indian-summer time 
Of scarlet friiits, of fragrant wood, 
Of purpled clouds, of curling haze — 
O days of golden dreams, and days 
Of banish'd, vanish'd tawny men, 
Of martial songs of manly deeds — 
Be fair to-day, and bear me true." 
We mounted, turn'd the sudden steeds 
Toward the yellow hills and flew. 

My faith! but she rode fair, and she 
Had scarlet berries in her hair, 
And on her hands white starry stones. 
The satellites of manv thrones 



TIO 



AN INDIAN SUMMER. 



Fall down before lier gracious air 
In that full season. Fair to see 
Are pearly shells, red, virgin gold, 
And yellow fruits, and sun-down seas, 
And babes sun-brown; but all of these, 
And all fair things of sea besides, 
Before the matchless, manifold 
Accomplishments of her who rides 
With autumn summer in her hair, 
And knows her steed and holds her fair 
And stately in her stormy seat, 
They lie like playthings at her feet. 

By heaven! she was more than fair. 
And more than good, and matchless wise, 
With all the lovelight in her eyes. 
And all the midnight in her hair. 

Through leafy avenues and lanes. 
And lo! we climb'd the yellow hills. 
With russet leaves about the brows 
That reach'd from over-reaching trees. 
With purpled briars to the knees 
Of steeds that fretted foamy thews. 
We turn'd to look a time below 
Beneath the ancient arch of boughs, 
That bent above us as a bow 
Of promise, bound in many hues. 

I reach'd my hand. I could refuse 
All fruits but this, the touch of her 
At such a time. But lo! she lean'd 
With lifted face and soul, and leant 
As leans devoutest worshipper. 
Beyond the branches scarlet screen'd 
And look'd above me and beyond. 
So fix'd and silent, still and fond. 
She seem'd the while she look'd to lose 
Her very soul in such intent. 
She look'd on other things, but I, 
I saw nor scarlet leaf nor sky; 
I look'd on her, and only her. 

Afar the city lay in smokes 
Of battle, and the martial strokes 



Of Progress thunder'd through the land 
And struck against the yellow trees, 
And roll'd in hollow echoes on 
Like sounding limits of the seas 
That smite the shelly shores at dawn. 

Beyond, below, on either hand 
There reach'd a lake in belt of pine, 
A very dream; a distant dawn 
Asleep in all the autumn shine. 
Some like one of another laud 
That I once laid a hand upon, 
And loved too well, and named as mine. 

She sometimes touch'd with dimi^l'd 
hand 
The drifting mane with dreamy air. 
She sometimes push'd aback her hair; 
But still she lean'd and look'd afar. 
As silent as the statues stand, — 
For what ? For falling leaf? For star, 

That runs before the bride of death ? 

The elements were still; a breath 
Stirr'd not, the level western sun 
Pour'd in his arrows every one; 
Spill'd all his wealth of purpled red 
On velvet poplar leaf below. 
On arching chestnut overhead 
In all the hues of heaven's bow. 

She sat the upper hill, and high. 
I spurr'd my black steed to her side; 
"The bow of promise, lo! " I cried, 
And lifted up my eyes to hers 
With all the fervid love that stirs 
The blood of men beneath the sun. 
And reach'd my hand, as one undone, 
In suppliance to hers above: 
"The bow of promise! give me love! 
I reach a hand, I rise or fall. 
Henceforth from this: put forth a hand 
From your high place and let me stand — 
Stand soul and body, white and tall! 
Why, I would live for you, would die 
To-morrow, but to live to-day. 



AN INDIAN SUMMER. 



Ill 



Give me but love, and let rue live 
To die before you. I caia pray 
To only you, because I know. 
If you but give what I bestow. 
That God has nothing left to give." 

Christ! still her stately head was raised, 
And still she silent sat and gazed 
Beyond the trees, beyond the town, 
To where the dimpled waters slept, 
Nor splendid eyes once bended down 
To eyes that lifted up and wept. 

She spake not, nor subdued her head 
To note a hand or heed a word; 
And then I questiou'd if she heard 
My life-tale on that leafy hill, 
Or any fervid word I said. 
And spoke with bold, vehement will. 

She moved, and from her bridle hand 
She slowly drew the dainty glove, 
Then gazed again upon the land. 
The dimpled hand, a snowy dove 
Alit, and moved along the mane 
01 glossy skeins; then, overbold, 
It fell across the mane, and lay 
Before my eyes a sweet bouquet 
Of cluster'd kisses, white as snow. 
I should have seized it reaching so. 
But something bade me back, — a ban; 
Around the third fair finger ran 
A shining, hateful hoop of gold. 

Ay. then I turn'd, I look'd away, 
I sudden felt forlorn and chili; 
I whistled, like, for want to say. 
And then I said, with bended head, 
"Another's ship from other shores. 
With richer freight, with fairer stores, 
Shall come to her some day instead; " 
Then turn'd about, — and all was still. 

Tea, you had chafed at this, and cried, 
Andlaugh'd with bloodless lips, and said 



Some bitter things to sate your pride, 

And toss'd aloft a lordly head, 

And acted well some wilful lie. 

And, most like, ciirsed yourself — but I. .. 

Well, you be crucified, and you 

Be broken up with lances through 

The soul, then you may turn to find 

Some ladder-rounds in keenest rods, 

Some solace in the bitter rind. 

Some favor with the gods irate — 

The everlasting anger d gods — 

And ask not overmuch of fate. 

I was not born, was never bless 'd. 
With cunning ways, nor wit, nor skill 
In woman's ways, nor words of love. 
Nor fashion'd suppliance of will. 
A very clown, I think, had guess'd 
How out of place and plain I seem'd; 
I, I, the idol-worshiper. 
Who saw nor maple-leaves nor sky 
But took some touch and hue of her. 

I am a pagan, heathen, lo! 
A savage man, of savage lands; 
Too quick to love, too slow to know 
The sign that tame love understands. 

-f » * # « » 

Some heedless hoofs went sounding 
down 
The broken way. The woods were brown. 
And homely now; some idle talk 
Of folk and town; a broken walk; 
But sounding feet made song no more 
For me along that leafy shore. 

The sun caught up his gather'd sheaves; 
A squirrel caught a nut and ran; 
A rabbit rustled in the leaves, 
A whirling bat. black-wing'd and tan. 
Blew swift between us; sullen night 
Fell down upon us; mottled kine. 
With lifted heads, went lowing down 
The rocky ridge toward the town. 
And all the woods grew dark as wine. 



tl2 



AN INDIAN SUMMER. 



Yea, bless'd Ohio's banks are fair; 

A sunny clime and good to tonch, 

For tamer men of gentler mien, 

But as for me, another scene. 

A laud below the Alps I know, 

Set well with grapes and girt with much 

Of woodland beauty; I shall share 

My rides by night below the light 

Of Mauna Loa, ride below 

The steep and Starry Hebron height ; 

Shall lift my hands in many lands, 

See South Sea palm, see Northland fir, 

See white-winged swans, see red-bill'd 

doves; 
See many lands and many loves, 
But never more the face of her. 



And what her name or now the place 
Of her who makes my Mecca's prayer. 
Concerns yon not; not any trace 



Of entrance to my temple's shrine 
Remains. The memory is mine, 
And none shall pass the portals there. 

I see the gold and purple gleam 
Of autumn leaves, a reach of seas, 
A silent rider like a dream 
Moves by, a mist of mysteries. 
And these are mine, and only these, 
Yet they be more in my esteem. 
Than silver'd sails on corall'd seas. 

The present! take it, hold it thine. 
But that one hour out from all 
The years that are, or yet shall fall, 
I pluck it out, I name it mine; 
That hour bound in sunny sheaves, 
With tassell'd shocks of golden shine, 
That hour wound in scarlet leaves, 
Is mine. I stretch a hand and swear 
An oath that breaks into a prayer; 
By heaven, it is wholly mine! 



* I wrote, or rather lived, this bit of color at Cleveland, Ohio, giving to it the entire autumn of gold. The 
prime purpose was to get the atmosphere of an Ohio Saint Martin's summer, but it grew to be a very serious 
matter. The story, what little there is of it, is literally true. In fact we must In some sort at least, live what 
we write if what we write is to live. 



FROM SEA TO SEA. 



ii3 



FROM SEA TO SEA. 

Lo! here sit we hy the sun-down seas 
And the White Sierras. The sweet sea-breeze 
Is about us here; and a sky so fair 
Is bending above, so cloudless, blue, 
That you gaze and you gaze and you dream, and you 
See God and the portals of heaven there. 



Shake hauds! kiss liauds iu haste to the 

sea, 
Where the sun comes iu, aud mount with 

me 
The matchless steed of the strong New 

World, 
As he champs and chafes with a strength 

untold, — 
And away to the West, where the waves 

are curl'd, 
As they kiss white palms to the capes of 

gold! 

A girtn of brass and a breast of steel, 
A breath of flame and a flaming mane, 
An iron hoof and a steel-clad heel, 
A Mexican bit and a massive chain 
Well tried and wrought in an iron rein; 
And away! away! with a shout and yell 
That had stricken a legion of old with 

fear, 
They had started the dead from their graves 

while're, 
And startled the damn'd in hell as well. 

Stand up! stand out! where the wind 

comes in. 
And the wealth of the seas ijours over 

you, 
As its health flooda up to the face like 

wine. 



And a breath blows up from the Delaware 
And the Susquehanna. We feel the might 
Of armies iu us; the blood leaps through 
The frame with a fresh and a keen delight 
As the Alleghanies have kiss'd the hair, 
With a kiss blown far through the rush 

and din. 
By the chestnut burrs and through boughs 

of pine. 

O seas in a land! O lakes of mine! 
By the love I bear and the songs I bring 
Be glad with me! lift your waves and 

sing 
A pong in the reeds that surround j-^our 

isles! — 
A song of joy for this sun that smiles. 
For this land I love and this age and 

sign; 
For the peace that is and the perils pass'd; 
For the hope that is and the rest at last! 

O heart of the world's heart! West! my 

West! 
Look up! look out! There are fields of 

kine. 
There are clover-fields that are red as wine; 
And a world of kiue iu the fields take rest. 
As they ruminate iu the shade of trees 
That are white with blossoms or brown 

with bees. 



114 



FROM SEA TO SEA. 



There are emerald seas of corn and cane; 

There are isles of oak on the harvest plain, 

Where brown men bend to the bending 
grain; 

There are temples of God and towns new 
born, 

And beautiful homes of beai;tiful brides; 

And the hearts of oak and the hands of 
horn 

Have fashion'd all these and a world be- 
sides . . . 

A rush of rivers and a bn;sh of trees, 
A breath blown far from the Mexican seas. 
And over the great heart-vein of earth! 
... By the South-Sun-land of the Chero- 
kee, 
By the scalp-lock-lodge of the tall Pawnee, 
And up La Platte. What a weary dearth 
Of the homes of men! What a wild delight 
Of space! Of room! What a sense of seas, 
Where the seas are not! What a salt-like 

breeze! 
What dust and taste of quick alkali! 
...Then hills! green, brown, then black 

like night. 
All fierce and defiant against the sky! 

At last! at last! O steed new-born. 
Born strong of the will of the strong New 

World, 
We shoot to the summit, with the shafts 

of morn, 
On the mount of Thunder, where clouds 

are curl'd, 
Below in a splendor of the sun-clad seas. 
A kiss of welcome on the warm west breeze 
Blows up with a smell of the fragrant 

pine, 
And a faint, sweet fragrance from the far- 

oflf seas 
Comes in through the gates of the great 

South Pass, 
And thrills the soul like a flow of wine. 
The hare leaps low in the storm-bent grass. 



The mountain ram from his clifif looks 

back, 
The brown deer hies to the tamarack; 
And afar to the South with a sound of the 

main, 
KoU buffalo herds to the limitless plain . . . 

On, on, o'er the summit; and onward 
again. 

And down like the sea-dove the billow en- 
shrouds. 

And down like the swallow that dips to 
the sea, 

We dart and we dash and we quiver and we 

Are blowing to heaven white billows of 
clouds. 

Thou " City of Saints!" O antique men. 
And men of the Desert as the men of old! 
Stand up! be glad! When the truths are 

told. 
When Time has utter'd his truths and 

when 
His hand has lifted the things to fame 
From the mass of things to be known noj 

more, 
A monument set in the desert sand, 
A pyramid rear'd on an inland shore. 
And their architects shall have place and| 

name. 

The Humboldt desert and the alkaline| 

land. 
And the seas of sage and of arid sand 
That stretch away till the strain'd eye 

carries 
The soul where the infinite spaces fill, 
Are far in the rear, and the tierce Sierras 
Are under our feet, and the hearts beat] 

high 
And the blood comes quick; but the lipsj 

are still 
With awe and wonder, and all the will 
Is bow'd with a grandeur that frets the 

sky. 



FROM SEA TO SEA. 



115 



A flash of lakes through the fragrant 

trees, 
A song of birds and a sound of bees 
Above in the boiighs of the sugar-pine. 
The piclc-ax stroke in the placer mine, 
The boom of blasts in the gold-ribbed 

hills, 
The grizzly's growl in the gorge below 
Are dying away, and the sound of rills 
From the far-off shimmering crest of snow, 
The laurel green and the ivied oak, 
A yellow stream and a cabin's smoke. 
The brown bent hills and the shepherd's 

call. 
The hills of vine and of fruits, and all 
The sweets of Eden are here, and we 
Look out and afar to a limitless sea. 



We have lived an age in a half-moon- 
wane! 
We have seen a world! We have chased 

the siin 
From sea to sea; but the task is done. 
We here descend to the great white main — 
To the King of Seas, with its temples bare 
And a tropic breath on the brow and hair. 

We are hush'd with wonder, we stand 

apart, 
We stand in silence; the heaving heart 
Fills full of heaven, and then the knees 
Go down in worship on the golden sands. 
With faces seaward, and with folded hands 
We gaze on the boundless, white Balboa 

seas. 



This was written during my first railroad ride from New York to San Francisco, at a time when this was the 
greatest ride on the globe and parties came to California in great crowds to look upon the Pacific. It is to be 
deplored that zeal and interest have so nearly perished with the novelty of the great journey. 




ii6 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 

Part I. 

Rhyme on, rhyme on, in reedy flow, 
O river, rhymer ever sweet! 
The story of thy land is meet; 
The stars stand listening to know. 

Rhyme on, river of the earth! 
Gray father of the dreadful seas, 
Rhym.e on! the world upon its knees 
Invokes thy songs, thy wealth, thy worth. 

Rhyme on! the reed is at thy mouth, 

kingly minstrel, mighty stream! 
Thy Crescent City, like a dream, 
Hangs in the heaven of my South. 

Rhyme on, rhyme on! these broken strings 
Sing sweetest in this warm south wind; 

1 sit thy ivillow hanks and bind 
A broken harp that fitful sings. 



And where is my silent, sweet blossom- 
sown town ? 

And where is her glory, and what has she 
done? 

By her Mexican seas in the path of the 
sun, 

Sit you down; in her crescent of seas, sit 
you down. 

Aye, glory enough by her Mexican seas ! 
Aye, story enough in that battle-torn town, 
Hidden down in her crescent of seas, hid- 
den down 
In her mantle and sheen of magnolia- 
white trees. 



But mine is the story of souls; of a soul 
That barter'd God's limitless kingdom for 

gold, — 
Sold stars and all space for a thing he did 

hold 
In his palm for a day; and then hid with 

the mole: 

Sad soul of a rose-land, of moss-mantled 
oak — 
Gray, Druid-old oaks; and the moss that 

sways 
And swings in the wind is thebattle-smoke 
Of duelists dead, in her storied days : 

Sad soul of a love-land, of church-bells 
and chimes; 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



117 



A love-laud of altars and orange flowers; 
Aud that is thereason for all these rhymes — 
That church-bells are ringing through all 
these hours! 

This sun-land has churches, has priests 

at prayer, 
White nuns, that are white as the far north 

snow; 
Thej' go where duty may bid them go, — 
They dai'e when the angel of death is there. 

This land has ladies so fair, so fair, 
In their Creole quarter, with great black 

eyes — 
So fair that the Mayor must keep them 

there 
Lest troubles, like troubles of Troy, arise. 

This sun-land has ladies with eyes held 

down. 
Held down, because if they lifted them, 
Whyi you would be lost in that old French 

town. 
Though even you held to God's garment 

hem. 

This love-land has ladies so fair, so fair, 
That they bend their eyes to the holy book. 
Lest you should forget yourself, your 

prayer, 
And never more cease to look and to look. 

And these are the ladies that no men 
see. 
And this is the reason men see them not; 
Better their modest, sweet mystery — 
Better by far than red battle-shot. 

And so, in this curious old town of 
tiles, 
The proud French quarter of days long 

gone, 
In castles of Spain and tumble-down piles, 
These wonderful ladies live on and on. 



I sit in the church where they come and 

go; 
I dream of glory that has long since gone; 
Of the low raised high, of the high brought 

low 
As in battle-torn days of Napoleon. 

These grass-plaited places, so rich, so 

poor! 
One quaint old church at the edge of the 

town 
Has white tombs laid to the very church 

door — 
White leaves in the story of life turn'd 

down: 

While leaves in the story of life are 

these, 
The low white slabs in the long, strong 

grass, 
Where glory has emptied her hour-glass. 
And dreams with the dreamers beneath 

the trees. 

I dream with the dreamers beneath the 

sod. 
Where souls pass by to the great white 

throne; 
I count each tomb as a mute mile-stone 
For weary, sweet souls on their way to 

God. 

I sit all daj' by the vast, strong stream, 
'Mid low white slabs in the long, strong 

grass, 
Where time has forgotten for aye to jjass, 
To dream, and ever to dream aud to dream. 

This quaint old church, with its dead to 

the door. 
By the cypress swamp at the edge of the 

town, 
So restful it seems that you want to sit 

down 
And rest you, aud rest you for evermore. 



lib 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



And one white stone is a lowliest tomb 
That has crept up close to the crumbling 

door, — 
Some penitent soul, as imploring room 
Close under the cross that is leaning o'er. 

'T is a low white slab, and 't is nameless, 
too, — 
Her untold story, why, who should know? 
Yet God, I reckon, can read right through 
That nameless stone to the bosom below. 

A.nd the roses know, and they pity her, 

too; 
They bend their heads in the sun or rain. 
And they read, and they read, and then 

read again, 
As children reading strange pictures 

through. 

Why, surely her sleep it should be pro- 
found; 
For oh, the apples of gold above! 
And oh, the blossoms of bridal love! 
And oh, the roses that gather around! 

The sleep of a night or a thousand 

morns — 
Why, what is the difference here, to-day? 
Sleeping and sleeping the years away, 
With all earth's roses and none of its 

thorns. 

Magnolias white, white rose and red — 
The palm-tree here and the cypress there: 
Sit down by the palm at the feet of the 

dead, 
And hear a penitent's midnight prayer. 



The old churchyard is still as death; 
A stranger passes to and fro, 
As if to church — he does not go; 
The dead night does not draw a breath. 



A lone sweet lady prays within. 
The stranger passes by the door — 
Will he not pray ? Is he so poor 
He has no prayer for his sin ? 

Is he so poor? Why, two strong hands 
Are fiill and heavy, as with gold; 
They clasp as clasp two iron bands 
About two bags with eager hold. 

Will he not pause and enter in, 
Put down his heavy load and rest, 
Put off his garmenting of sin, 
As some black mantle from his breast? 

Ah me! the brave alone can pray, 
The church-door is as cannon's mouth 
For ci'ime to face, or North or South, 
More dreaded than dread battle-duy. 

» « « * « » 

Now two men pace. They pace apart; 
And one with youth and truth is fair, 
The fervid siin is in his heart. 
The tawny South is in his hair. 

Aye, two men pace — pace left and rights 
The lone sweet lady prays within; 
Aye, two men pace; the silent night 
Kneels down in prayer for some sin. 

Lo! two men pace; and one is gray, 
A blue-eyed man from snow-clad land. 
With something heavy in each hand, — 
With heavy feet, as feet of clay. 

Aye, two men pace; and one is light 
Of step, but still his brow is dark; 
His eyes are as a kindled spark 
That burns beneath the brow of night! 

And still they pace. The stars are red. 
The tombs are white as frosted snow; 
The silence is as if the dead 
Did pace in couples to and fro. 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



119 



The azure curtain of God's house 
Draws back, aud hangs star-pinned to 

space; 
I hear the low, large moon arouse. 
And slowly lift her languid face. 

I see her shoulder up the east. 
Low-necked, aud large as womanhood — 
Low-necked, as for some ample feast 
Of gods, within yon orange- wood. 

She spreads white palms, she whispers 
peace, — 
Sweet peace on earth forevermore; 
Sweet peace for two beneath the trees, 
Sweet peace for one within the door. 

The bent stream, as God's scimitar. 
Flashed in the sun, sweeps on and on. 
Till sheathed, like some great sword new- 
drawn. 
In seas beneath the Carib's star. 

The high moon climbs the sapphire hill, 
The lone sweet lady prays within; 
The crickets keep such clang and din — 
They are so loud, earth is so still! 

And two men glare in silence there! 
The bitter, jealous hate of each 
Has grown too deep for deed or speech — 
The lone sweet lady keeps her prayer. 

The vast moon high through heaven's 
field 
In circling chariot is rolled; 
The golden stars are spun and reeled, 
And woven into cloth of gold. 

The white magnolia fills the night 
With perfume, as the proud moon fills 
The glad earth with her ample light 
From out her awful sapphire hills. 



White orange-blossoms fill the boughs 
Above, about the old church-door; 
They wait the bride, the bridal vows, — 
They never hung so fair before. 

The two men glare as dark as sin! 
And yet all seem so fair, so white. 
You woiild not reckon it was night, — 
The while the lady prays within. 



She prays so very long and late, — 
The two men, weary, waiting there, — 
The great magnolia at the gate 
Bends drowsily above her prayer. 

The cypress in his cloak of moss, 
That watches on in silent gloom. 
Has leaned and shaped a shadow cross 
Above the nameless, lowly tomb. 

What can she pray for? What her sin? 
What folly of a maid so fair? 
What shadows bind the wondrous hair 
Of one who prays so long within ? 

The palm-trees guard in regiment, 
Stand right and left without the gate; 
The myrtle-moss trees wait and wait; 
The tall magnolia leans intent. 

The cypress-trees, on gnarled old knees, 
Far out the dank and marshy deep 
Where slimy monsters groan and creep, 
Kneel with her in their marshy seas. 

What can her sin be? Who shall know? 
The night flies by, — a bird on wing; 
The men no longer to and fro 
Stride up and down, or anything. 

For one, so weary and so old. 
Has hardly strength to stride or stir; 
He can but hold his bags of gold, — 
But hug his gold and wait for her. 



I20 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



The two stand still, — stand face to 
face. 
The moon slides on, the midnight air 
Is perfumed as a house of prayer, — 
The maiden keeps her holy place. 

Two men! And one is gray, but one 
Scarce lifts a full-grown face as yet; 
With light foot on life's threshold set, — 
Is he the other's sun-born son? 

And one is of the land of snow, 
And one is of the land of sun; 
A black-eyed, burning youth is one, 
But one has pulses cold and slow: 

Aye, cold and slow from clime of snow 
Where Nature's bosom, icy bound. 
Holds all her forces, hard, profound, — 
Holds close where all the South lets go. 

Blame not the sun, blame not the 
snows, — 
God's great schoolhouse for all is clime; 
The great school teacher, Father Time, 
And each has borne as best he knows. 

At last the elder speaks, — he cries, — 
He speaks as if his heart would break; 
He speaks out as a man that dies, — 
As dying for some lost love's sake: 

"Come, take this bag of gold, and go! 
Come, take one bag! See, I have two! 
Oh, why stand silent, staring so. 
When I would share my gold with you ? 

" Come, take this gold! See how I pray! 
See how I bribe, and beg, and buy, — 
Aye, buy! and beg, as you, too, may 
Some day before you come to die. 

"God! take this gold, I beg, I pray! 
I beg as one who thirsting cries 
For but one drop of drink, and dies 
In some lone, loveless desert way. 



' ' You hesitate ? Still hesitate ? 
Stand silent still and mock my pain? 
Still mock to see me wait and wait, 
And wait her love, as earth waits rain'" 



O broken ship! O starless shore! 

black and everlasting night! 
Where love comes never any more 

To light man's way with heaven's light. 

A godless man with bags of gold 

1 think a most unholy sight; 
Ah, who so desolate at night. 
Amid death's sleepers still and cold? 

A godless man on holy ground 
I think a most unholy sight. 
I hear death trailing, like a hound. 
Hard after him, and swift to bite. 



The vast moon settles to the west; 
Yet still two men beside that tomb. 
And one would sit thereon to rest, — 
Aye, rest below, if there were room. 



What is this rest of death, sweet friend? 
What is the rising up, and where? 
I say, death is a lengthened prayer, 
A longer night, a larger end. 

Hear you the lesson I once learned: 
I died; I sailed a million miles 
Through dreamful, flowery, restful isles, — 
She was not there, and I returned. 

I say the shores of death and sleep 
Are one; that when we, wearied, come 
To Lethe's waters, and lie dumb, 
'Tis death, not sleep, holds us to keep. 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



121 



Yea, we lie dead for need of rest, 
And so the soul drifts out and o'er 
The vast still waters to the shore 
Beyond, iu pleasant, tranquil quest: 

It sails straight on, forgetting pain, 
Past isles of peace, to perfect rest, — 
Now were it best abide, or best 
Eeturn and take up life again? 

And that is all of death there is. 
Believe me. If you find your love 
In that far land, then, like the dove. 
Pluck olive boughs, nor back to this. 

But if you find your love not there; 
Or if 3'our feet feel sure, and you 
Have still allotted work to do, — 
Why, then haste back to toil and care. 

Death is no mystery. 'T is plain 
If death be mystery, then sleep 
Is mystery thrice strangely deep,— 
For oh, this coming back again! 

Austerest ferryman of souls! 
I see the gleam of shining shores; 
I hear thy steady stroke of oars 
Above the wildest wave that rolls. 

O Charon, keep thy somber ships! 
I come, with neither myrrh nor balm, 
Nor silver piece in open palm, — 
Just lone, white silence on my lips. 



She prays so long! she prays so late! 
What sin iu all this flower land 
Against her supplicating hand 
Could have in heaven any weight? 

Prays she for her sweet self alone? 
Prays she for some one far away. 
Or some one near and dear to-day, 
Or some poor lorn, lost soul unknown? 



It seems to me a selfish thing 
To pray forever for one's self; 
It seems to me like heaping pelf, 
In heaven by hard reckoning. 

Why, I would rather stoop and bear 
My load of sin, and bear it well 
And bravely down to your hard hell. 
Than pray and pray a selfish prayer! 



The swift chameleon in the gloom — 
This gray morn silence so profound! — 
Forsakes its bough, glides to the ground, 
Then up, and lies across the tomb. 

It erst was green as olive-leaf; 
It then grew gray as myrtle moss 
The time it slid the tomb across; 
And now 't is marble-white as grief. 

The little creature's hues are gone 
Here in the gray and ghostly light; 
It lies so pale, so panting white, — 
White as the tomb it lies upon. 

The two still by that nameless tomb! 
And both so still! You might have said, 
These two men, they are also dead, 
And only waiting here for room. 

How still beneath the orange-bough! 
How tall was one, how bowed was one! 
The one was as a journey done, 
The other as beginning now. 

And one was young, — young with that 
youth 
Eternal that belongs to truth; 
And one was old, — old with the years 
That follow fast on doubts and fears. 

And yet the habit of command 
Was his, in every stubborn part; 



122 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



No common knave was he at heart, 
Nor his the common coward's hand. 

He looked the young man in the face, 
So full of hate, so frank of hate; 
The other, standing in his place, 
Stared back as straight and hard as fate. 

And now he sudden turned away, 
And now he paced the path, and now 
Came back beneath the orange bough, 
Pale-browed, with lips as cold as clay. 

As rante as shadows on a wall, 
As silent stiil, as dark as they. 
Before that stranger, bent and gray, 
The youth stood scornful, proud and 
tall. 

He stood a clean palmetto tree 
With Spanish daggers guarding it; 
Nor deed, nor word, to him seemed fit 
While she prayed on so silently , 

He slew his rival with his eyes 
His eyes were daggers piercing deep, — 
So deep that blood began to creep 
From their deep wounds and drop word- 
wise. 

His eyes so black, so bright, that 
they 
Might raise the dead, the living slay^ 
If but the dead, the living bore 
Such hearts as heroes had of yore. 

Two deadly arrows barbed in black. 
And feathered, too, with raven's wing; 
Two arrows that could silent sting, 
And with a death-wound answer back. 

How fierce he was! how deadly still 
In that mesmeric, searching stare 
Turned on the pleading stranger there 
That drew to him, despite his will! 



So like a bird down-fluttering, 
Down, down, beneath a snake's bright 

eyes, 
He stood, a fascinated thing, 
That hopeless, unresisting, dies. 

He raised a hard hand as before, 
Keached out the gold, and offered it 
With hand that shook as ague-fit, — 
The while the youth but scorned the more. 

" You will not touch it? In God's name. 
Who are you, and what are you, then? 
Come, take this gold, and be of men, — 
A human form with human aim. 

•'Yea, take this gold, — she must be mine! 
She shall be mine! I do not fear 
Your scowl, your scorn, your soul austere, 
The living, dead, or your dark sign . 

" I saw her as she entered there; 
I saw her, and uncovered stood; 
The perfume of her womanhood 
Was holy incense on the air. 

" She left behind sweet sanctity, 
Religion went the way she went; 
I cried I would repent, repent! 
She passed on, all unheeding me, 

"Her soul is young, her eyes are bright 
And gladsome, as mine own are dim; 
But oh, I felt my senses swim 
The time she passed me by to-night! — 

"The time she passed, nor raised her 
eyes 
To hear me cry I would repent. 
Nor turned her head to hear my cries. 
But swifter went the way she went, — 

" Went swift as youth, for all these 
years! 
And this the strangest thing appears, 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



123 



That lady there seems just the same, — 
Sweet Gladys — Ah! you kuow her name? 

" You bear her name and start that I 
Should name her dear name trembling 

so? 
Why, boy, when I shall come to die 
That name shall be the last I kuow. 

•'That name shall be the last sweet 
name 
My lips shall utter in this life! 
That name is brighter than bright flame, — 
That lady is mine own sweet wife! 

"Ah, start and catch your burning 
breath! 
Ah, start and clutch your deadly knife! 
If this be death, then be it death, — 
But that loved lady is my wife! 

"Yea, you are stunned! your face is 
white. 
That I should come confronting you. 
As comes a lorn ghost of the night 
From out the past, and to pursue. 

"You thought me dead? You shake 
your head, 
You start back horrified to know 
That she is loved, that she is wed, 
That you have sinned in loving so. 

•• Yet what seems strange, that lady 
there, 
Housed in the holy house of prayer. 
Seems just the same for all her tears, — 
For all my absent twenty years. 

" Yea, twenty years to-night, to-night, — 
Just twenty years this day, this hour. 
Since first I plucked that perfect flower. 
And not one witness of the rite. 

"Nay, do not doubt, — I tell you true! 
Her prayers, her tears, her constancy 



Are all for me, are all for me, — 
And not one single thought for you! 

" I knew, I knew she would be here 
This night of nights to pray for me! 
And how could I for twenty year 
Kuow this same night so certainly? 

"Ah me! some thoughts that we would 
drown, 
Stick closer than a brother to 
The conscience, and pursue, pursue. 
Like baying hound, to hunt lis down. 

" And, then, that date is history; 
For on that night this shore was shelled, 
And many a noble mansion felled. 
With many a noble family, 

" I wore the blue; I watched the flight 
Of shells, like stars tossed through the 

air 
To blow your hearth-stones — anywhere. 
That wild, illuminated night, 

" Nay, rage befits you not so well; 
Why, you were but a babe at best; 
Your cradle some sharp bursted shell 
That tore, maybe, your mother's breast! 



me: 



We 



honored 



" Hear 
war. 
The risen world was on j'our track! 
The whole North-land was at our back. 
From Hudson's bank to the North Star! 

"And from the North to palm -set sea 
The splendid fiery cyclone swept. 
Your fathers fell, your mothers wept. 
Their nude babes clinging to the knee. 

"A wide and desolated track: 
Behind, a path of ruin lay; 
Before, some women by the way 
Stood mutely gazing, clad in black. 



124 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



• From sileut women waiting there 
White tears came down like still, small 

rain; 
Their own song of the battle-plain 
Were now but viewless ghosts of air. 

" Their own dear, daring boys in gray, — 
They should not see them any more; 
Our cruel drums kept telling o'er 
The time their own sons went away. 

•'Through burning town, by bursting 
shell- 
Tea, I remember well that night; 
I led through orange-lanes of light, 
As through some hot outpost of hell! 

"That night of rainbow shot and shell 
Sent from yon surging river's breast 
To waken me, no more to rest, — 
That night I should remember well! 

"That night, amid the maimed and 
dead — 
A night in history set down 
By light of many a burning town, 
And written all across in red, — 

" Her father dead, her brothers dead, 
Her home in flames, — what else could she 
But fly all helpless here to me, 
A fluttered dove, that night of dread ? 

" Short time, hot time had I to woo 
Amid the red shells' battle-chime; 
But women rarely reckon time. 
And perils waken tove anew. 

" Aye, then I wore a captain's sword; 
And, too, had oftentime before 
Doffed cap at her dead father's door, 
And passed a lover's pleasant word. 

"And then — ah, I was comely then! 
I bore no load upon my back. 



I heard no hounds upon my track, 
But stood the tallest of tall men. 

" Her father's and her mother's shrine, 
This church amid the orange-wood; 
So near and so secure it stood, 
It seemed to beckon as a sign. 

"Its white cross seemed to beckon 
me; 
My heart was strong, and it was mine 
To throw myself upon my knee, 
To beg to lead her to this shrine. 

" She did consent. Through lanes of 

light 
I led through this church-door that night — 
Let fall yoiar hand! Take back your 

face 
And stand, — stand patient in your place! 

" She loved me; and she loves me still. 
Yea, she clung close to me that hour 
As honey-bee to honey-flower, — 
And still is mine through good or ill. 

"The priest stood there. He spake the 
prayer; 
He made the holy, mystic sign. 
And she was mine, was wholly mine, — 
Is mine this moment, I can swear! 

"Then days, then nights of vast de- 
light,- 
Then came a doubtful later day; 
The faithful priest, now far away, 
Watched with ihe dying in the fight: 

" The priest amid the dying, dead. 
Kept duty on the battle-field, — 
That midnight marriage unrevealed 
Kept strange thoughts running thro' my 
head. 

" At last a stray ball struck the priest^ 
This vestibule his chancel was; 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



125 



Aud uow noue lived to speak her cause, 
Record, or champiou her the least. 

" Hear me! I had been bred to hate 
All priests, their mummeries aud all. 
Ah, it was fate, — ah, it was fate 
That all things tempted to my fall! 

"And then the dashing songs we sang 
Those nights when rudely reveling, — 
Such songs that only soldiers sing, — 
Until the very tent-poles rang! 

" What is the rhyme that rhymers 
say. 
Of maidens born to be betrayed 
By epaulettes and shining blade, 
While soldiers love and ride away? 

"And then my comrades spake her name 
Half taunting, with a touch of shame; 
Taught me to hold that lily-flower 
As some light pastime of the hour. 

"And then the ruin in the land, 
The death, dismay, the lawlessness! 
Men gathered gold on everj- hand, — 
Heaped gold: and why should I do 
less? 

" The cry for gold was in the air, — 
For Creole gold, for precious things; 
The sword kept prodding here and there. 
Through bolts and sacred fastenings. 

"'Get gold! get gold!' This was the 
cry. 
And I loved gold. What else could I 
Or you, or any earnest one. 
Born in this getting age, have done ? 

"With this one lesson taught from youth, 
And ever taught us, to get gold,— 
To get and hold, and ever hold, — 
What else could I have done, forsooth? 



'' She, seeing how I crazed for gold, — 
This girl, my wife, one late night told 
Of treasures hidden close at hand, 
In her dead father's mellow land; 

" Of gold she helped her brothers hide 
Beneath a broad banana-tree 
The day the two in battle died, 
The night she, dying, fled to me. 

" It seemed too good; I laughed to scorn 
Her trustful tale. She answered not; 
But meekly on the morrow morn 
These two great bags of bright gold brought . 

•'And when she brought this gold to 
me, — 
Red Creole gold, rich, rare, and old, — 
When I at last had gold, sweet gold, 
I cried in verj' ecstasy. 

"Bed gold! rich gold! two bags of gold! 
The two stout bags of gold she brought 
And gave, with scarce a second thought, — 
Why, her two hands could scarcely hold! 

"Now I had gold! two bags of gold! 
Two wings of gold, to fly, and fly 
The Avide world's girth; red gold to hold 
Against my heart for aye and aye! 

" My country's lesson: ' Gold! get gold!' 
I learned it well in land of snow; 
And what can glow, so brightly glow. 
Long winter nights of northern cold? 

"Aye, now at last, at last I had 
The one thing, all fair things above. 
My land had taught me most to love! 
A miser uow! and I grew mad. 

" With these two bags of gold my own, 
I soon began to plan some night 
For flight, for far and sudden flight, — 
For flight; aud, too, for flight alone. 



126 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



"I feared! I feared! My heart grew 
cold, — 
Some one might claim this gold of me! 
I feared her, — feared her purity — 
Feared all things but my bags of gold. 

" I grew to hate her face, her creed, — 
That face the fairest ever yet 
That bowed o'er holy cross or bead. 
Or yet was in God's image set. 

"I fled, — nay, not so knavish low. 
As you have fancied, did I fly: 
I sought her at this shrine, and I 
Told her full frankly I should go. 

"I stood a giant in my power, — 
And did she question or dispute? 
I stood a savage, selfish brute, — 
She bowed her head, a lily-flower. 



"And when I sudden turned to go. 
And told her I should come no more, 
She bowed her head so low, so low, 
Her vast black hair fell pouring o'er. 

"And that was all; her splendid face 
Was mantled from me, and her night 
Of hair half hid her from my sight, 
As she fell moaning in her place. 

"And there, through her dark night of 
hair. 
She sobbed, low moaning in hot tears. 
That she would wait, wait all the years, — 
Would wait and pray in her despair. 

"Nay, did not murmur, not deny, — 
She did not cross me one sweet word! 
I turned and fled; I thoxight I heard 
A night-bird's piercing low death-cry! " 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



127 



PART II. 

How soft the moonlight of my South! 
Hoio siveet the South in soft moonlight! 
I want to kiss her warm, sweet mouth 
As she lies sleeping here to-night. 

How still! I do not hear a mouse. 
I see some bursting buds appear; 
I hear God in his garden, — hear 
Him trim, some flowers for His house. 

I hear some singing stars; the mouth 
Of my vast river sings and sings. 
And pipes on reeds of pleasant things, — 
Of splendid promise for my South: 

My great South-woman, soon to rise 
And tiptoe up and loose her hair; 
Tiptoe, and take from, out the skies 
God's stars and glorious moon to wear! 



The poet shall create or kill, 
Bid heroes live, bid braggarts die. 
I look against a lurid sky, — 
My silent South lies proudly still. 

The fading light of burning lands 
Still climbs to God's house overhead; 
Mute women wring white, withered hands; 
Their eyes are red, their skies are red. 

And we still boast our bitter wars! 
Still burn and boast, and boast and lie 
But God's white finger spins the stars 
In calm dominion of the sky. 



And not one ray of light the less 
Comes down to bid the grasses spring; 
No drop of dew nor anything 
Shall fail for all our bitterness. 

If man grows large, is God the less? 
The moon shall rise and set the same, 
The great suu spill his splendid flame, 
And clothe the world in queenliness. 

Tea, from that very blood-soaked sod 
Some large-souled, seeing youth shall 

come 
Some day, and he shall not be dumb 
Before the awful court of God. 



128 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



II. 

The weary moon had turned away, 
The far North Star was turning pale 
To hear the stranger's boastful tale 
Of blood and flame that battle-day. 

And yet again the two men glared, 
Close face to face above that tomb; 
Each seemed as jealous of the room 
The other, eager waiting shared. 

Again the man began to say, — 
As taking up some broken thread. 
As talking to the patient dead, — 
The Creole was as still as they: 



yon grass- 



"That night we burned 
grown town, — 
The grasses, vines are reaching up; 
The ruins they are reaching down, 
As sun-browned soldiers when they sup. 

" I knew her, — knew her constancy. 
She said this night of every year 
She here would come, and kneeling here, 
Would pray the livelong night for me. 

"This praying seems a splendid thing! 
It drives old Time the other way; 
It makes him lose all reckoning 
Of years that I have had to pay. 

"This praying seems a splendid thing! 
It makes me stronger as she prays — 
But oh, those bitter, bitter days, 
When I became a banished thing! 

" I fled, took ship, — I fled as far 
As far ships drive tow'rd the North Star: 
For I did hate the South, the sun 
That made me think what I had done. 

"I could not see a fair palm-tree 
In foreign land, in pleasant place, 



But it would whisper of her face 

And shake its keen, sharp blades at me. 

" Each black-eyed woman would recall 
A lone church-door, a face, a name, 
A coward's flight, a soldier's shame: 
I fled from woman's face, from all. 

" I hugged my gold, my precious gold. 
Within my strong, stout buckskin vest. 
I wore my bags against my breast 
So close I felt my heart grow cold. 

"I did not like to see it now; 
I did not spend one single piece; 
I traveled, traveled without cease 
As far as Russian ship could plow. 

"And when my own scant hoard was 
gone, 
And I had reached the far North-land, 
I took my two stout bags in hand 
As one pursued, and journeyed on. 

" Ah, I was weary! I grew gray; 
I felt the fast years slip and reel, 
As slip bright beads when maidens kneel 
At altars when outdoor is gay. 

" At last I fell prone in the road, — 
Fell fainting with my cursed load. 
A skin-clad Cossack helped me bear 
My bags, nor would one shilling share. 

"He looked at me with proud disdain, — 
He looked at me as if he knew; 
His black eyes burned me thro' and thro'; 
His scorn pierced like a deadly pain. 

"He frightened me with honesty; 
He made me feel so small, so base, 
I fled, as if a fiend kept chase, — 
A fiend that claimed my company! 

" I bore my load alone; I crept 
Far up the steep and icy way; 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



129 



And there, before a cross there lay 

A barefoot priest, who bowed aud wept. 

" I threw my gold right down and sped 
Straight on. And oh, my heart was light! 
A springtime bird in springtime flight 
Flies scarce more happy than I fled. 

" I felt somehow this monk would take 
My gold, my load from off my back; 
Would turn the fiend from off my track, 
Would take my gold for sweet Christ's 
sake! 

" I fled; I did not look behind; 
I fled, fled with the mountain wind. 
At last, far down the mountain's base 
I found a pleasant resting-place. 

" I rested there so long, so well. 
More grateful than all tongues can tell. 
It was such pleasant thing to hear 
That valley's voices calm and clear: 

"That valley veiled in mountain air. 
With white goats on the hills at morn; 
That valley green with seas of corn, 
With cottage-islands here and there. 

"I watched the mountain girls. The hay 
They mowed was not more sweet than 

they; 
They laid brown hands in my white hair; 
They marveled at my face of care. 

"I tried to laugh; I could but weep. 
I made these peasants one request, — 
That I with them might toil or rest. 
And with them sleep the long, last sleep. 

"I begged that I might battle there, 
In that fair valley-land, for those 
Who gave me cheer, when girt with foes, 
And have a country loved as fair. 



" Where is that spot that poets name 
Our country? name the hallowed land? 
Where is that spot where man must stand 
Or fall when girt with sworn and flame? 

Where is that one permitted spot ? 
Where is the one place man must fight? 
Where rests the one God-given right 
To fight, as ever patriots fought ? 

" I say 'tis in that holy house 
Where God first set us down on earth; 
Where mother welcomed \is at birth, 
Aud bared her breasts, a happy spouse. 

"The simple plowboy from his field 
Looks forth. He sees God's purple wall 
Encircling him. High over all 
The vast sun wheels his shining shield. 

" This King, who makes earth what it 
is, — 
King David bending to his toil! 

lord and master of the soil. 
How envied in thy loyal bliss! 

" Long live the land we loved in yout'a 
That world with blue skies bent about. 
Where never entered ugly doubt! 
Long live the simple, homelj' truth! 

"Can true hearts love some far snow- 
laud. 
Some bleak Alaska bought with gold ? 
God's laws are old as love is old; 
Aud Home is something near at hand. 

"Yea, change you river's course; es- 
trange 
The seven sweet stars; make hate divide 
The full moon from the flowing tide, — 
But this old truth ye cannot change. 

"I begged a land as begging bread; 

1 begged of these brave mountaineers 



I30 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



To share their sorrows, share their tears; 
To weep as they wept with their dead. 

" They did consent. The mountain 
town 
Was mine to love, and valley lands. 
That night the barefoot monk came down 
And laid my two bags in my hands! 

"On! on! And oh, the load I bore! 
Why, once I dreamed my soul was lead; 
Dreamed once it was a body dead! 
It made my cold, hard bosom sore. 

**I dragged that body forth and back — 

conscience, what a baying hound! 
Nor frozen seas nor frosted ground 

Can throw this bloodhound from his track. 

•' In farthest Kussia I lay down, 
A dying man, at last to rest; 

1 felt such load upon my breast 

As seamen feel, who, sinking, drown. 

"That night, all chill and desperate, 
I sprang up, for I could not rest; 
I tore the two bags from my breast. 
And dashed them in the burning grate. 

" I then crept back into my bed; 
I tried, I begged, I prayed to sleep; 
But those red, restless coins would keep 
Slow dropping, dropping, and blood-red. 

"I heard them clink, and clink, and 

clink, — 
They turned, they talked within that 

grate. 
They talked of her; they made me think 
Of one who still did pray and wait. 

"And when the bags burned crisp and 
black. 
Two coins did start, roll to the floor, — 
Roll out, roll on, and then roll back, 
As if they needs must journey more. 



" Ah, then I knew nor change nor space. 
Nor all the drowning years that rolled 
Could hide from me her haunting face, 
Nor still that red-tongued, talking gold! 

" Again I sprang forth from my bed! 
I shook as in an ague fit; 
I clutched that red gold, burning red, 
I clutched as if to strangle it. 

" I clutched it up — you bear me, boy? — 
I clutched it up with joyful tears! 
I chitched it close with such wild joy 
I had not felt for years and years ? 

" Such joy! for I should now retrace 
My steps, should see my land, her face; 
Bring back her gold this battle-day. 
And see her, hear her, hear her pray! 

" I brought it back — you hear me, boy ? 
I clutch it, hold it, hold it now; 
Red gold, bright gold that giveth joy 
To all, and anywhere or how; 

"That giveth joy to all but me, — 
To all but me, yet soon to all. 
It burns my hands, it burns! but she 
Shall ope my hands and let it fall. 

"For oh, I have a willing hand 
To give these bags of gold; to see 
Her smile as once she smiled on me 
Here in this pleasant warm palm-land." 

He ceased, he thrust each hard-clenched 
fist,— 
He threw his gold hard forth again. 
As one impelled by some mad pain 
He would not or could not resist. 

The Creole, scorning, turned away, 
As if he turned from that lost thief, — 
The one who died without belief 
That dark, dread crucifixion day. 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



131 



Believe iu man nor turn away. 
Lo! man advances year by year; 
Time bears him upward, and his sphere 
Of life must broaden day by day. 

Believe in man with large belief; 
The garnered grain each harvest-time 
Hath promise, roundness, and full prime 
For all the empty chaff and sheaf. 

Believe in man with brave belief; 
Truth keeps the bottom of her well; 
And when the thief peeps down, the thief 
Peeps back at him perpetual. 

Faint not that this or that man fell; 
For one that falls a thousand rise 
To lift white Progress to the skies: 
Truth keeps the bottom of her well. 

Fear not for man, nor cease to delve 
For cool, sweet truth, with large belief. 
Lo! Christ himself chose only twelve. 
Yet one of these turned out a thief. 



Down through the dark magnolia leaves. 
Where climbs the rose of Cherokee 
A-gainst the orange-blossomed tree, 
A loom of morn-light weaves and weaves, — 

A loom of morn-light, weaving clothes 
From snow-white rose of Cherokee, 
And bridal blooms of orange-tree. 
For fairy folk housed in red rose. 

Down through the mournful myrtle 
crape, 
Thro' moving moss, thro' ghostly gloom, 
A long, white morn-beam takes a shape 
Above a nameless, lowly tomb; 

A long white finger through the gloom 
Of grasses gathered round about, — 



As God's white finger pointing out 
A name upon that nameless tomb. 



Her white face bowed in her black hair. 
The maiden prays so still within 
That you might hear a falling pin, — 
Aye, hear her white, unuttered prayer. 

The moon has grown disconsolate. 
Has turned her down her walk of stars: 
Why, she is shutting up her bars, 
As maidens shut a lover's gate. 

The moon has grown disconsolate; 
She will no longer watch and wait. 
But two men wait; and two men will 
Wait on till full morn, mute and still- 
Still wait and walk among the trees 
Quite careless if the moon may keep 
Her walk along her starry steep 
Or drown her iu the Southern seas. 

They know no moon, or set or rise 
Of sun, or anything to light 
The earth or skies, save her dark eyes. 
This praying, waking, watching night. 

They move among the tombs apart, 
Their eyes turn ever to that door; 
They know the worn walks there by heart — 
They turn and walk them o'er and o'er. 

They are not wide, these little walks 
For dead folk by this crescent town; 
They lie right close when they lie down, 
As if they kept up quiet talks. 



The two men keep their paths apart; 
But more and more begins to stoop 
The man with gold, as droop and droop 
Tall plants with something at their heart. 



132 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



Now once again, with eager zest, 
He offers gold with silent speech; 
The other will not walk in reach, 
But walks around, as round a pest. 

His dark eyes sweep the scene around. 
His young face drinks the fragrant air. 
His dark eyes journey everywhere, — 
The other's cleave unto the ground. 

It is a weary walk for him, 
For oh, he bears such weary load! 
He does not like that narrow road 
Between the dead — it is so dim: 

It is so dark, that nan-ow place, 
Where graves lie thick, like yellow leaves: 
Give us the light of Christ and grace; 
Give light to garner in the sheaves. 

Give light of love; for gold is cold, — 
Aye, gold is cruel as a crime; 
It gives no light at such sad time 
As when man's feet wax weak and old. 

Aye, gold is heavy, hard, and cold! 
And have I said this thing before? 
Well, I will say it o'er and o'er, 
'T were need be said ten thousand fold. 

"Give us this day our daily bread," — 
Get this of God; then all the rest 
Is housed in thine own earnest breast. 
If you but lift an honest head. 



Oh, I have seen men tall and fair. 
Stoop down their manhood with disgust,- 
Stoop down God's image to the dust, 
To get a load of gold to bear: 

Have seen men selling day by day 
The glance of manhood that God gave: 



To sell God's image, as a slave 
Might sell some little pot of clay! 

Behold! here in this green graveyard 
A man with gold enough to fill 
A coffin, as a miller's till; 
And yet his path is hard, so hard! 

His feet keep sinking in the sand. 
And now so near an opened grave! 
He seems to hear the solemn wave 
Of dread oblivion at hand. 

The sands, they grumble so, it seems 
As if he walks some shelving brink; 
He tries to stop, he tries to think. 
He tries to make believe he dreams: 

Why, he was free to leave the land, — 
The silver moon was white as dawn; 
Why, he has gold in either hand. 
Had silver ways to walk upon. 

And who should chide, or bid him stay? 
Or taunt, or threat, or bid him fly? 
" The world 's for sale," I hear men say. 
And yet this man had gold to buy. 

Buy what? Buy rest? He could not rest! 
Buy gentle sleep ? He could not sleep, 
Though all these graves were wide and 

deep 
As their wide mouths with the request. 

Buy Love, buy faith, buy snow-white 
truth? 
Buy moonlight, sunlight, present, past? 
Buy but one brimful cup of youth 
That true souls drink of to the last? 

O God! 'twas pitiful to see 
This miser so forlorn and old! 
O God! how poor a man may be 
With nothing in this world but gold! 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



133 



The broad magnolia's blooms were white; 
Her blooms were large, as if the moon 
Quite lost her way that dreamful night, 
And lodged to wait the afternoon. 

Oh, vast white blossoms, breathing love! 
White bosom of my lady dead. 
In your white heaven overhead 
I look, and learn to look above. 



The dew-wet roses wept; their eyes 
All dew, their breath as sweet as prayer. 
And as they wept, the dead down there 
Did feel their tears and hear their sighs. 

The grass uprose, as if afraid 
Some stranger foot might press too near; 
Its every blade was like a spear. 
Its every spear a living blade. 

The grass above that nameless tomb 
Stood all arrayed, as if afraid 
Some weary pilgrim, seeking room 
And rest, might lay where she was laid. 



'T was morn, and yet it was not morn; 
'T was morn in heaven, not on earth: 
A star was singing of a birth, — 
Just saying that a day was born. 

The marsh hard by that bound the 
lake, — 
The great stork sea-lake, Pouchartrain, 
Shut off from sultry Cuban main, — 
Drew up its legs, as half awake: 

Drew long, thin legs, stork-legs that 
steep 
In slime where alligators creep, — 
Drew long, green legs that stir the grass. 
As when the lost, lorn night winds pass. 



Then from the marsh came croakinga 

low; 
Then louder croaked some sea-marsh 

beast; 
Then, far away against the east, 
God's rose of morn began to grow. 

From out the marsh against that east, 
A ghostly moss-swept cypress stood; 
With ragged arms, above the wood 
It rose, a God-forsaken beast. 

It seemed so frightened where it rose! 
The moss-hung thing, it seemed to wave 
The worn-out garments of a grave, — 
To wave and wave its old grave-clothes. 

Close by, a cow rose up and lowed 
From out a palm-thatched milking-shed; 
A black boy on the river road 
Fled sudden, as the night had fled: 

A nude black boy, — a bit of night 
That had been broken off and lost 
From flying night, the time it crossed 
The soundless river in its flight: 

A bit of darkness, following 
The sable night on sable wing, — 
A bit of darkness, dumb with fear. 
Because that nameless tomb was near. 

Then holy bells came pealing out; 
Then steamboats blew, then horsea 

neighed; 
Then smoke from hamlets round about 
Crept out, as if no more afraid. 

Then shrill cocks here, and shrill cocka 
there. 
Stretched glossy necks and filled the air; — 
How many cocks it takes to make 
A country morning well awake! 

Then many boughs, with many birds, — 
Young bougha in green, old boughs in 
gray; 



134 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



These birds had very much to say, 
In their soft, sweet, familiar words. 

And all seemed sudden glad; the gloom 
Forgot the church, forgot the tomb; 
And yet, like monks with cross and bead, 
The myrtles leaned to read and read. 

And oh, the fragrance of the sod! 
And oh, the perfume of the air! 
The sweetness, sweetness everywhere. 
That rose like incense up to God! 



I like a cow's breath in sweet spring; 
I like the breath of babes new-born; 
A maid's breath is a pleasant thing, — 
But oh, the breath of sudden morn! — 

Of sudden morn, when every pore 
Of Mother Earth is pulsing fast 
With life, and life seems spilling o'er 
With love, with love too sweet to last: 

Of sudden morn beneath the sun. 
By God's great river wrapped in gray, 
That for a space forgets to run. 
And hides his face, as if to pray. 



The black-eyed Creole kept his eyes 
Turned to the door, as eyes might turn 
To see the holy embers burn 
Some sin away at sacrifice. 

Full dawn! but yet he knew no dawn. 
Nor song of bird, nor bird on wing. 
Nor breath of rose, nor anything 
Her fair face lifted not upon. 

And yet he taller stood with morn; 
His bright eyes, brighter than before, 
Burned fast against that favored door, 
His proud lips lifting still with scorn,— 



With lofty, silent scorn for one 
Who all night long had plead and plead. 
With none to witness but the dead 
How he for gold had been undone. 

O ye who feed a greed for gold 
And barter truth, and trade sweet youth 
For cold, hard gold, behold, behold! 
Behold this man! behold this truth! 

Why what is there in all God's plan 
Of vast creation, high or low. 
By sea or land, by sun or snow, 
So mean, so- miserly as man? 

* ■»* * * 1* # 

Lo, earth and heaven all let go 
Their garnered riches, year by year! 
The treasures of the trackless snow, 
Ah, hast thou seen how very dear? 

The wide earth gives, gives golden grain. 
Gives fruits of gold, gives all, gives all! 
Hold forth your hand, and these shall fall 
In your full palm as free as rain. 

Yea, earth is generous. The trees 
Strip nude as birth-time without fear; 
And their reward is year by year 
To feel their fullness but increase. 

The law of Nature is to give. 
To give, to give! and to rejoice 
In giving with a generous voice. 
And so trust God and truly live. 



But see this miser at the last, — 
This man who loved, who worshipped gold, 
Who grasped gold with such eager hold, 
He fain must hold forever fast: 

As if to hold what God lets go; 
As if to hold, while all around 
Lets go and drops upon the ground 
All things as generous as snow. 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



135 



Let go your hold! let go or die! 
Let go poor soul! Do uot refuse 
Till death comes by aud shakes you loose, 
Aud seuds you shamed to hell for aye! 

What if the sun should keep his gold? 
The rich moou lock her silver up? 
What if the gold-clad buttercup 
Became such miser, mean aud old? 

Ah, me! the coffins are so true 
In all accounts, the shrouds so thin 
That down there you might sew and sew. 
Nor ever sew one pocket in. 

And all that yon can hold of lands 
Down there, below the grass, down there. 
Will only be that little share 
You hold in your two dust-fiiU hands. 



She conies! she comes! The stony floor 
Speaks out! Aud now the rusty door 
At last has just one word this day^ 
With mute, religious lips, to say. 

She comes! she comes! And lo, her face 
Is upward, radiant, fair as prayer! 
So pure here m this holy place, 
Where holy peace is everywhere. 

Her upraised face, her face of light 
Aud loveliness, from duty done, 
Is like a rising orient sun 
That pushes back the brow of night. 



How brave, how beautiful is truth! 
Good deeds untold are like to this. 
But fairest or all fair things is 
A pious maiden m her youth: 

A pious maiden as she stands 
Just on the threshold ot the years 



That throb and pulse with hopes and fears, 
And reaches God her helpless hands. 



How fair is she! How fond is she! 
Her foot upon the threshold there. 
Her breath is as a blossomed tree,— 
This maiden mantled in her hair! 

Her hair, her black abundant hair. 
Where night inhabited, all night 
And all this day, will not take flight, 
But finds content and houses there. 

Her hands are clasped, her two small 
hands: 
They hold the holy book of prayer 
Just as she steps the threshold there, 
Clasped downward whereshe silent stands. 



Once more she lifts her lowly face, 
And slowly lifts her large, dark eyes 
Of wonder, and in still surprise 
She looks full forward in her place. 

She looks full forward on the air 
Above the tomb, and yet below 
The fruits of gold, the blooms of snow. 
As looking — looking anywhere. 

She feels — she knows not what she feels; 
It is uot terror, is not fear. 
But there is something that reveals 
A presence that is near and dear. 

She does not let her eyes fall down, 
They lift against the far j^rofound: 
Against the blue above the town 
Two wide-winged vultures circle round. 

Two brown birds swim above the sea, — 
Her large eyes swim as dreamily, 
And follow far, and follow high. 
Two circling black specks in the sky. 



136 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH 



One forward step, — the closiug door 
Creaks out, as frightened or iu pain; 
Her ej'es are on the ground again — 
Two men are standing close before. 



my 



"My love," sighs one, '=my life, 
all!" 
Her lifted foot across the sill 
Sinks down. — and all things are so still 
You hear the orange-blossoms fall. 

But fear comes not where d\ity is. 
And purity is peace and rest; 
Her cross :s close upon her breast, 
Her two hands clasp hard hold of this. 



Her two hands clasp cross, book, and 
she 
Is strong in tranquil purity, — 
Aj^e, strong as Samson when he laid 
His two hands forth and bowed and prayed . 

One at her left, one at her right, 
And she between the steps upon,— • 
I can but see that Syrian night, 
The women there at early dawn. 

XIV. 

The sky is like an opal sea, 
The air is like the breath of kine; 
But oh, her face is white, and she 
Leans faint to see a lifted sign, — 

To see two hands lift tip and wave, — 
To see a face so white with woe, 
So ghastly, hollow, white as though 
It had that moment left the grave. 

Her sweet face at that ghostly sign. 
Her fair face in her weight ot hair, 
Is like a white dove drowning there, — 
A white dove drowned iu Tuscan wine. 

He tries to stand, to stand erect; 
T is gold, 'tis gold that holds him down! 



And soul and body both must drown, — 
Two millstones tied about his neck. 

Now once again his piteous face 
Is raised to her face reaching there 
He prays such piteous silent prayer. 
As prays a dying man for grace. 

It is not good to see him strain 
To lift his hands, to gasp, to try 
To speak. His parched iii^s are so dry 
Their sight is as a living pain, 

I think that rich man down in hell 
Some like this old man with his gold, — 
To gasp and gasp perpetual, 
Like to this minute I have told. 



XV. 

At last the miser cries his pain, — 
A shrill, wild cry. as if a grave 
Just opd its stony lips and gave 
One sentence forth, then closed again. 

"'Twas twenty years last night, last 
nichtl". 
His lips still moved, but not to speak; 
His outstretched hands, so trembling weak. 
Were beggar's hands in sorry plight. 

His face upturned to hers; his lips 
Kept talking on, but gave no sound; 
His ieet were cloven to the ground; 
Like iron hooks his finger tips, 

"Aye, twenty years," she sadly sighedt 
** I promised mother every year. 
That I would pray for father here. 
As she still prayed the night she died: 

" To pray as she prayed, fervently. 
As she had promised she would pray 
The sad night that he turned away, 
For him, wherever he might be." 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH. 



137 



Then she was still; theu sudden she 
Let fall her eyes, and so outspake, 
As if her very heart would break, 
Her proud lips trembling piteously: 

"And whether he comes soon or late 
To kneel beside this nameless grave, 
May God forgive my father's hate 
As I forgive, as she forgave! " 

He saw the stone; he imderstood, 
With that quick knowledge that will come 
Most quick when men are made most dumb 
With ten'or that stops still the blood. 

And then a blindness slowly fell 
On soul and body; but his hands 



Held tight his bags, two iron bauds. 
As if to bear them into hell. 



He sank upon the nameless stone 
With oh! such sad, such piteous moau 
As never man might seek to know 
From man's most unforgiving foe. 

He sighed at last, so long, so deep. 
As one heart breaking in one's sleep, — 
One long, last, weary, willing sigh, 
As if it were a grace to die. 

And then his hands, like loosened bands, 
Hung down, hiing down, on either side; 
His hands hung down, hung open wide: 
Wide empty hung the dead man's hands. 



I had Ions aspired, too selfishly, perhaps, to associate my name in song with the father of waters, and finally, 
under the wing of Captain James Eades, of the jetties, gave the year of the Cotton Centennial to the endeavor. 
Frankly I was not equal to the stupendous task. I found nothing all the way from Saint Paul down, down to 
where Eades bitted and bridled the mighty river's mouth in the Mexican seas that I could master or lay hand upon. 
Yes, majesty, majesty, majesty, thousands of miles of majesty, movement, color; corn, cotton, cane, cane and 
cotton and corn, green, gray and golden; but it was the monotonous majesty of eternity; an eternity of monotony. 

However the work was done and published as "TheKhyme of the Great River" Several revisions and 
publications followed. This is the fifth. Each time I got further and further away from the mighty theme until 
at last De Soto's river is no longer the subject, and a new name is fit. 

But, believe me, I do not disparage what is written here, as it now stands, shorn of half its verbiage. Indeed, 
were the lesson of this poem not needed in this age of getting and getting, it would find no place here. As said 
elsewhere, I never work without some foundation for story, character, and scene. The little church at the edge 
of thecity— a shrine for the devout who wait miraculous cures— is. as well as the environments, described literally. 

When the great poet comes who can bend these mighty waters to his will, and make melody of this eternal 
majesty which awed me to silence, he will find endless material for his story in this brave, cultured, and classic old 
French city of New Orleans. As for myself, I can better value gold in the rough ore than the glittering coins. 
And, too, I must have mountains, mountains, the wilderness, not these polished, civilized levels, even though 
never so stately and vast. 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



139 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 

A wild, wide land of mysteries. 
Of sea-salt lakes and dried up seas. 
And lonely wells and pools; a land 
That seems so like dead Palestine, 
Save that its wastes have no confine 
Till 2^nsh'd against the levelVd skies. 
A land from, out whose depths shall rise 
The neio-time prophets. Yea, the land 
From out ichose awful depths shall come, 
A loivly man, with dusty feet, 
A man fresh from his Maker^s hand, 
A singer singing oversweet, 
A charmer charming very icise; 
And then all vicn shall not he dumb. 
Nay, not he dumb; for he shall say, 
" Take heed, for I prepare the way 
for weary feet." Lo! from this land 
Of Jordan streams and dead sea sand. 
The Christ shall come when next the race 
Of man shall look upon His face 



A man in middle Aridzone 
Stood by the desert's edge alone, 
And loug he look'd, and leaii'd and 

peer'd, 
And twirl'd and twirl 'd his twist'd beard, 
Beneath a black and slouchy hat — 
JNay, nay, the tale is not of that. 

A skin-clad trapper, toe-a-tip, 
Stood on a mountain top; and he 
Look'd long, and still, and eagerly. 
" It looks so like some lonesome ship 
That sails this ghostly, lonely sea, — 
This dried-up desert sea," said he, 



" These tawny sands of buried seas "— ' 
Avaunt! this tale is not of these! 

A chief from out the desert's rim 
Eode swift as twilight swallows swim. 
And O! his supple steed was fleet! 
About his breast flapped panther skins, 
About his eager flying feet 
Flapp'd beaded, braided moccasins: 
He stopp'd, stock still, as still as stone, 
He leau'd, he look'd, there glisten'd bright. 
From out the yellow, yielding sand, 
A golden cup with Jewell 'd rim. 

He lean'd him low, he reach'd a baud, 
He caught it up, he gallop'd on, 



140 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



He tnrn'd his head, he saw a sight — 
His pauthei-skins flew to the wind, 
He rode into the rim of night; 
The dark, the desert lay behind; 
The tawny Ishmaelite was gone. 

He reach'd the town, and there held tip 
Above his head a jewel'd cnp. 
He put two fingers to his lip, 
He whisper'd wild, he stood a-tip. 
And lean'd the while with lifted hand, 
And said, " A ship lies yonder dead," 
And said, "Such things lie sown in sand 
In yon far desert dead and brown. 
Beyond where wave-wash'd walls look 

down, 
As thick as stars set overhead." 
" 'Tis from that desert ship," they said, 
" That sails with neither sail nor breeze 
The loneij' bed of dried-up seas, — 
A galleon that sank below 
"White seas ere Eed men drew the bow." 

By Arizona's sea of sand 
Some bearded miners, gray and old, 
And resolute in .search of gold. 
Sat down to tap the savage land. 
A miner stood beside the mine. 
He pull'd his beard, then looked away 
Across the level sea of sand. 
Beneath his broad and hairy hand, 
A hand as hard as knots of pine. 
" It looks so like a sea," said he. 
He pull'd his beard, and he did say, 
" It looks just like a dried-iip sea." 
Again he pull'd that beard of his. 
But said no other thing than this. 

A stalwart miner dealt a stroke, 
And struck a buried beam of oak. 
The miner twisted, twirl'd his beard, 
Lean'd on his pick-ax as he spoke: 
" 'Tis that same long-lost ship," he said, 
"Some laden ship of Solomon 
That sail'd these lonesome seas upon 



In search of Ophir's mine, ah me! 
That sail'd this dried-up desert sea. 



Now this the tale. Along the wide 
Missouri's stream some silent braves. 
That stole along the farther side 
Through sweeping wood that swept the 

waves 
Like long arms reach'd across the tide. 
Kept watch and every foe defied. 

A low, black boat that hngg'd the shores. 
An ugly boat, an ugly crew, 
Thick-lipp'd and woolly-headed slaves. 
That bow'd, and bent the white-ash oars. 
That cleft the mi;rky waters throiigh. 
Slow climb'd the swift Missouri's waves. 

A grand old Neptune in the prow, 
Gray-hair'd, and white with touch of time, 
Yet strong as in his middle prime. 
Stood nji, turn'd suddenly, look'd back 
Along his low boat's wrinkled track. 
Then drew his mantle tight, and now 
He sat all silently. Beside 
The grim old sea-king sat his bride, 
A sun land blossom, rudely torn 
From tropic forests to be worn 
Above as stern a breast as e'er 
Stood king at sea, or anywhere. 

Another boat with other crew 
Came swift and cautious in her track. 
And now shot shoreward, now shot back, 
And now sat rocking fro and to. 
But never once lost sight of her. 
Tall, sunburnt, southern men were these 
From isles of blue Carribbean seas. 
And one, that woman's worshiper. 
Who look'd on her, and loved but her. 

And one, that one, was wild as seas 
That wash the far, dark Oregon. 
And one, that one, had eyes to teach 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



141 



The art of love, and tongue to preach 
Life's hard and sober homilies, 
While he stood leaning, urging on. 



Pursuer and pursued. And who 
Are these that make the sable crew; 
These mighty Titans, black and nude, 
Who dare this Ked man's solitude? 

And who is he that leads them here, 
And breaks the hush of wave and wood? 
Comes he for evil or for good? 
Brave Jesuit or bold buccaneer? 

Nay, these be idle themes. Let pass. 
These be but men. We may forget 
The wild sea-king, the tawny brave. 
The frowning wold, the woody shore. 
The tall-built, sunburnt man of Mars. 
But what and who was she, the fair? 
The fairest face that ever yet 
Look'd in a wave as in a glass; 
That look'd, as look the still, far stars, 
So woman-like, into the wave 
To contemplate their beauty there? 

I only saw her, heard the sound 
Of murky waters gurgling round 
In counter-currents from the shore. 
But heard the long, strong stroke of oar 
Against the water gray and vast; 
I only saw her as she pass'd — 
A great, sad beauty, in whose eyes 
Lay all the peace of Paradise. 

O you had loved her sitting there, 
Half hidden in her loosen'd hair; 
Tea, loved her for her large dark eyes. 
Her push'd out mouth, her mute surprise — 
Her mouth! 'twas Egypt's mouth of old, 
Push'd out and pointing full and bold 
With simple beauty where she sat. 
Why, you had said, on seeing her, 



This creature comes from out the dim, 
Far centuries, beyond the rim 
Of time's remotest reach or stir; 
And he who wrought Semiramis 
And shaped the Sibyls, seeing this, 
Had kneeled and made a shrine thereat. 
And all his life had worshipp'd her. 

IV. 

The black men bow'd, the long oars 
bent, 
They struck as if for sweet life's sake. 
And one look'd back, but no man spake. 
And all wills bent to one intent. 
On, through the golden fringe of day 
Into the deep, dark night, away 
And up the wave 'mid walls of wood 
They cleft, they climb'd, they bow'd, they 

bent. 
But one stood tall, and restless stood, 
And one sat still all night, all day. 
And gazed in helpless wonderment. 

Her hair pour'd down like darkling wine, 
The black men lean'd a sullen line. 
The bent oars kept a steady song. 
And all the beams of bright sunshine 
That touch'd the waters wild and strong, 
Fell drifting down and out of sight 
Like fallen leaves, and it was night. 

And night and day, and many days 
They climb'd the sullen, dark gray tide. 
And she sat silent at his side, 
And he sat turning many ways; 
Sat watching for his wily foe. 
At last he baffled him. And yet 
His brow gloom'd dark, his lips were set; 
He lean'd, he peer'd through boughs, as 

though 
From heart of forests deep and dim 
Grim shapes might come confronting him. 

A stern, uncommon man was he. 
Broad-should er'd, as of Gothic form. 



142 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



Strong-bnilt, and hoary like a sea; 

A high sea broken up by storm. 

His face was brown and over-wrought 

By seams and shadows born of thought, 

Not over-gentle. And his eyes, 

Bold, restless, resolute and deep. 

Too deep to flow like shallow fount 

Of common men where waters mount; — 

Fierce, lumined eyes, where flames might 

rise 
Instead of flood, and flash and sweep — 
Strange eyes, that look'd unsatisfied 
With all things fair or otherwise; 
As if his inmost soul had cried 
All time for something yet unseen, 
Some long-desired thing denied. 



Below the overhanging boughs 
The oars lay idle at the last; 
Yet long he look'd for hostile prows 
From out the wood and down the stream. 
They came not, and he came to dream 
Pursuit abandon'd, danger past. 



He fell'd the oak, he built a home 
Of new-hewn wood with busy hand, 
And said, " My wanderings are told," 
And said, " No more by sea, by land. 
Shall I break rest, or drift, or roam. 
For I am worn, and I grow old." 



And there, beside that surging tide. 
Where gray waves meet, and wheel, and 

strike. 
The man sat down as satisfied 
To sit and rest unto the end; 
As if the strong man here had found 
A sort of brother in this sea, — 
This surging, sounding majesty. 
Of troubled water, so profound. 
So sullen, strong, and lion-like, 
So lawless in its every round. 



Hast seen Missouri cleave the wood 
In sounding whirlpools to the sea? 
What soul hath known such majesty? 
What man stood by and understood? 



Now long the long oars idle lay. 
The cabin's smoke came forth and curl'd 
Right lazily from river brake. 
And Time went by the other way. 
And who was she, the strong man's pride, 
This one fair woman of his world, 
A captive? Bride, or not a bride? 
Her eyes, men say, grew sad and dim 
With watching from the river's rim, 
As waiting for some face denied. 

Yea, who was she? none ever knew. 
The great, strong river swept around 
The cabins nestled in its bend. 
But kept its secrets. Wild birds flew 
In bevies by. The black men found 
Diversion in the chase: and wide 
Old Morgan ranged the wood, nor friend 
Nor foeman ever sought bis side, 
Or shared his forests deep and dim. 
Or cross'd his path or question'd him. 

He stood as one who found and named 
The middle world. What visions flamed 
Athwart the west! What prophecies 
Were his, the gray old man, that day 
Who stood alone and look'd away, — 
Awest from out the waving trees. 
Against the utter sundown seas. 

Alone ofttime beside the stream 
He stood and gazed as in a dream, — 
As if he knew a life unknown 
To those who knew him thus alone. 
His eyes were gray and overborne 
By shaggy brows, his strength was shorn, 
Yet still he ever gazed awest, 
As one that would not, coiild not rest. 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



143 



And had he fled with bloody hand? 
Or had he loved some Helen fair, 
And battling lost both land and town? 
Say, did he see his walls go down, 
Then choose from all his treasures there 
This one, and seek some other laud ? 



The squirrels chatter'd in the leaves, 
The turkeys call'd from pawpaw wood, 
The deer with lifted nostrils stood, 
'Mid climbing blossoms sweet with bee, 
'Neath snow-white rose of Cherokee. 

Then frosts hung ices on the eaves, 
Then cushion snows possess'd the ground, 
And so the seasons kept their round; 
Yet still old Morgan went and came 
From cabin door through forest dim, 
Through wold of snows, through wood of 

flame, 
Through golden Indian-summer days, 
Hung red with soft September haze. 
And no man cross'd or questioned him. 

Nay, there was that in his stern air 
That held e'en these rude men aloof; 
None came to share the broad-built roof 
That rose so fortress-like beside 
The angry, rushing, sullen tide, 
And only black men gather'd there, 
The old man's slaves in dull content, 
Black, silent, and obedient. 

Then men push'd westward through his 
wood, 
His wild beasts fled, and now he stood 
Confronting men. He had endear'd 
No man, but still he went and came 
Apart, and shook his beard and strode 
His ways alone, and bore his load. 
If load it were, apart, alone. 
Then men grew busy with a name 
That no man loved, that many fear'd. 



And rude men stoop'd, and cast a stone, 
As at some statue overthrown. 

Some said, a stolen bride was she, 
And that her lover from the sea 
Lay waiting for his chosen wife. 
And that a day of reckoning 
Lay waiting for this grizzled king. 

Some said that looking from her place 
A love would sometimes light her face. 
As if sweet recollections stirr'd 
Like far, sweet songs that come to us. 
So soft, so sweet, they are not heard. 
So far, so faint, they fill the air, 
A fragrance falling anywhere. 

So, wasting all her summer years 
That utter'd only through her tears, 
The seasons went, and still she stood 
For ever watching down the wood. 

Yet in her heart there held a strife 
With all this wasting of sweet life, 
That none who have not lived and died — 
Held up the two hands crucified 
Between two ways — can understand. 

Men went and came, and still she stood 
In silence watching down the wood — 
Adown the wood beyond the land. 
Her hollow face upon her hand. 
Her black, abundant hair all down 
About her loose, ungather'd gown. 

And what her thought? her life unsaid? 
Was it of love? of hate? of him. 
The tall, dark Southerner? Her head 
Bow'd down. The day fell dim 
Upon her eyes. She bowed, she slept. 
She waken' d then, and waking wept. 



The black-eyed bushy squirrels ran 
Like shadows scattered through the 
boughs; 



144 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



The gallant robin cliirp'd his vows, 
The far-off pheasant thrumm'd his fan, 
A thousand blackbirds kept on wing 
In walnut-top, and it was Spring. 

Old Morgan sat his cabin door, 
And one sat watching as of yore, 
But why turn'd Morgan's face as white 
As his white beard? A bird aflight, 
A squirrel peering through the trees, 
Saw some cue silent steal away 
Like darkness from the face of day. 
Saw two black eyes look back, and these 
Saw her hand beckon through the trees. 

Ay! they have come, the sun-brown'd 
men. 
To beard old Morgan in his den. 
It matters little who they are, 
These silent men from isles afar; 
And truly no one cares or knows 
What be their merit or demand; 
It is enough for this rude land — 
At least, it is enough for those, 
The loud of tongue and rude of hand — 
To know that they are Morgan's foes. 

Proud Morgan! More than tongue can 
tell 
He loved that woman watching there. 
That stood in her dark storm of hair. 
That stood and dream'd as in a spell, 
And look'd so fix'd and far away; 
And who that loveth woman well. 
Is wholly bad ? be who he may. 



Ay! we have seen these Southern men. 
These sun-brown'd men from island shore. 
In this same land, and long before. 
They do not seem so lithe as then, 
They do not look so tall, and they 
Seem not so many as of old. 
But that same resolute and bold 



Expression of unbridled will, 
That even Time must half obey, 
Is with them and is of them still. 

They do not counsel the decree 
Of court or council, where they drew 
Their breath, nor law nor order knew, 
Save but the strong hand of the strong; 
Where each stood up, avenged his wrong, 
Or sought his death all silently. 
They watch along the wave and wood. 
They heed, but haste not. Their estate, 
Whate'er it be, can bide and wait. 
Be it open ill or hidden good. 
No law for them! For they have stood 
With steel, and writ their rights in blood; 
And now, whatever 't is they seek. 
Whatever be their dark demand, 
Why, they will make it, hand to hand, 
Take time and patience: Greek to Greek. 



Like blown and snowy wintry pine. 
Old Morgan stoop'd his head and pass'd 
Within his cabin door. He cast 
A great arm out to men, made sign. 
Then turn'd to Sybal; stood beside 
A time, then turn'd and strode the floor, 
Stopp'd short, breathed sharp, threw wide 

the door. 
Then gazed beyond the murky tide. 
Past where the forky peaks divide. 

He took his beard in his right hand. 
Then slowly shook his grizzled head 
And trembled, but no word he said. 
His thought was something more than 

pain; 
Upon the seas, upon the land 
He knew he should not rest again. 

He turn'd to her; and then once more 
Quick turn'd, and through the oaken door 
He sudden pointed to the west. 
His eye resumed its old command, 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



H5 



The conversation of his hand 

It was enough; she knew the rest. 

He turn'd, he stoop'd, and smooth'd her 
hair, 
As if to smooth away the care 
From his great heart, with his left hand. 
His right hand hitch'd the pistol round 
That dangled at his belt. The sound 
Of steel to him was melody 
More sweet than any song of sea. 
He touch'd his pistol, push'd his lips, 
Then tapp'd it with his finger tips, 
And toy'd with it as harper's hand 
Seeks out the chords when he is sad 
And purposeless. At last he had 
Resolved. In haste he touch'd her hair, 
Made sign she should arise — prepare 
For some long journey, then again 
He look'd awest toward the plain; 
Against the land of boundless space, 
The land of silences, the land 
Of shoreless deserts sown with sand, 
"Where Desolation's dwelling is; 
The laud where, wondering, you say, 
What dried-up shoreless sea is this ? 
Where, wandering, from day to day 
Tou say. To-morrow sure we come 
To rest in some cool resting place. 
And yet you journey on through space 
While seasons pass, and are struck dumb 
With marvel at the distances. 

Yea, he would go. Go utterly 
Away, and from all living kind; 
Pierce through the distances, and find 
New lands. He had outlived his race. 
He stood like some eternal tree 
That tops remote Yosemite, 
And cannot fall. He turn'd his face 
Again and contemplated space. 

And then he raised his hand to vex 
His beard, stood still, and there fell down 
Great drops from some unfrequent spring. 



And streak'd his chauell'd cheeks sun- 
brown. 
And ran uucheck'd, as one who recks 
Nor joy, nor tears, nor anything. 

And then, his broad breast heaving deep. 
Like some dark sea in troubled sleej?, 
Blown roixud with groaning ships and 

wrecks. 
He sudden roused himself, and stood 
With all the strength of his stern mood. 
Then call'd his men, and bade them go 
And bring black steeds with banner'd 

necks. 
And strong, like burly buffalo. 



The bronzen, stolid, still, black men 
Their black-maned hoi-ses silent drew 
Through solemn wood. One midnight 

when 
The curl'd moon tipp'd her horn, and 

threw 
A black oak's shadow slant across 
A low mound hid in leaves and moss. 
Old Morgan cautious came and drew 
From out the ground, as from a grave. 
Great bags, all copper-bound and old. 
And fill'd, men saj', with pirates' gold. 
And then they, silent as a dream. 
In long black shadow cross'd the stream. 



And all was life at morn, but one. 
The tall old sea-king, grim and gray, 
Look'd back to where his cabins lay. 
And seem'd to hesitate. He rose 
At last, as from his dream's repose. 
From rest that counterfeited rest. 
And set his blown beard to the west; 
And rode against the setting sun. 
Far up the levels vast and dun. 

His steeds were steady, strong and fleet. 
The best in all the wide west land. 



146 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



Their maues were in the air, their feet 
Seem'd scarce to touch the flying sand. 

They rode like men gone mad, they fled 
All day and many days they ran, 
And in the rear a gray old man 
Kept watch, and ever turn'd his head 
Half eager and half angry, back 
Along their dusty desert track. 

And she look'd back, but no man spoke. 
They rode, they swallowed up the plain; 
The sun sank low, he look'd again, 
With lifted hand and shaded eyes. 
Then far, afar, he saw uprise. 
As if from giant's stride or stroke. 
Dun dust, like puffs of battle-smoke. 

He turn'd, his left hand clutched the 
rein, 
He struck hard west his high right hand, 
His limbs were like the limbs of oak; 
All knew too well the man's command. 
On, on they spurred, they plunged again, 
And one look'd back, but no man spoke. 

They climb'd the rock-built breasts of 

earth. 
The Titan-fronted, blowy steeps 
That cradled Time. Where freedom keeps 
Her flag of bright, blown stars unfurl'd. 
They climbed and climbed. They saw the 

birth 
Of sudden dawn upon the world; 
Again they gazed; they saw the face 
Of God, and named it boundless space. 

And they descended and did roam 
Through levell'd distances set round 
By room. They saw the Silences 
Move by and beckon; saw the forms, 
The very beards, of burly storms. 
And heard them talk like sounding seas. 
On unnamed heights, bleak-blown and 
brown. 



I 



And torn-like battlements of Mars, 
They saw the darknesses come down. 
Like curtains loosen'd from the dome 
Of God's cathedral, built of stars. 

They pitch'd the tent where rivers run 
All foaming to the west, and rush 
As if to drown the falling sun. 
They saw the snowy mountains roU'd, 
And heaved along the nameless lands 
Like mighty billows; saw the gold 
Of awful sunsets; felt the hush 
Of heaven when the day sat down, 
And drew about his mantle brown, 
And hid his face in dusky hands. 

The long and lonesome nights! the tent ■ 
That nestled soft in sweep of grass. 
The hills against the firmament 
Where scarce the moving moon could pass; 
The cautious camp, the smother'd light, 
The silent sentinel at night! 

The wild beasts howling from the hill; 
The savage prowling swift and still, 
And bended as a bow is bent. 
The arrow sent; the arrow spent 
And buried in its bloody place; 
The dead man lying on his face! 

The clouds of dust, their cloud by day; 
Their pillar of unfailing fire 
The far North Star. And high, and higher, 
They climb'd so high it seemed eftsoon 
That they must face the falling moon, 
That like some flame-lit ruin lay 
High built before their weary way. 

They learn'd to read the sign of storms. 
The moon's wide circles, sunset bars, 
And storm-provoking blood and flame; 
And, like the Chaldean shepherds, came 
At night to name the moving stars. 
In heaven's face they pictured forms 
Of beasts, of fishes of the sea. 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



147 



They watch'd the Great Bear wearily 
Rise up and drag his clinking chain 
Of starb around the starry main 



And why did these worn, sun-burnt men 
Let Morgan gain the plain, and then 
Pursue him ever where he fled? 
Some say their leader sought but her; 
Unlike each swarthy follower. 
Some say they sought his gold alone, 
And fear'd to make their quarrel known 
Lest it should keep its secret bed; 
Some say they thought to best prevail 
And conquer with united hands 
Alone upon the lonesome sands; 
Some say they had as much to dread; 
Some say — but I must tell my tale. 

And still old Morgan sought the west; 
The sea, the utmost sea, and rest. 
He climb'd, descended, climb'd again, 
Until pursuit seemed all in vain; 
Until they left him all alone, 
As unpursued and as unknown. 
As some lost ship upon the main. 

O there was grandeur in his air, 
An old-time splendor in his eye, 
When he had climb'd at last the high 
And rock-built bastions of the plain, 
Thrown back his beard and blown white 

hair. 
And halting turn'd to look again. 

Dismounting in his lofty place. 
He look'd far down the fading plain 
For his pursuers, but in vain. 
Yea, he was glad. Across his face 
A careless smile was seen to play, 
The first for many a stormy day. 

He turn'd to Sybal, dark, yet fair 
As some sad twilight; touch 'd her hair, 
Stoop'd low, and kiss'd her gently there, 



Then silent held her to his breast; 
Then waved command to his black men, 
Look'd east, then mounted slow and then 
Led leisurely against the west. 

And why should he who dared to die, 
Who more than once with hissing breath 
Had set his teeth and pray'd for death? 
Why fled these men, or wherefore fly 
Before them now? why not defy? 

His midnight men were strong and true, 
And not unused to strife, and knew 
The masonry of steel right well, 
And all such signs that lead to hell. 

It might have been his youth had 
wrought 
Some wrongs his years would now repair, 
That made him fly and still forbear; 
It might have been he only sought 
To lead them to some fatal snare, 
And let them die by piecemeal there. 

I only know it was not fear 
Of any man or any thing 
That death in any shape might bring. 
It might have been some lofty sense 
Of his own truth and innocence, 
And virtues lofty and severe — 
Nay, nay! what room for reasons here? 

And now they pierced a fringe of trees 
That bound a mountain's brow like bay. 
Sweet through the fragrant boughs a breeze 
Blew salt-flood freshness. Far away. 
From mountain brow to desert base 
Lay chaos, space; unbounded space. 

The black men cried, "The sea!" They 
bow'd 
Black, woolly heads in hard black hands. 
They wept for joy. They laugh'd, they 

broke 
The silence of an age, and spoke 
Of rest at last; and, grouped in bands, 



148 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



They threw their long black arms about 
Each other's necks, and laugh'd aloud, 
Then wept again with laugh and shout. 

Yet Morgan spake no word, but led 
His baud with oft-averted head 
Eight through the cooling trees, till he 
Stood out upon the lofty brow 
And mighty mountain wall. And now 
The men who shouted, " Lo, the sea! " 
Eode in the sun; sad, silently, 
Rode in the siau, and look'd below. 
They look'd but once, then look'd away. 
Then look'd each other in the face. 
They could not lift their brows, nor say, 
But held their heads, nor spake, for lo! 
Nor sea, nor voice of sea, nor breath 
Of sea, but only sand and death, 
The dread mirage, the fiend of space! 



Old Morgan eyed his men, look'd back 
Against the groves of tamarack. 
Then tapp'd his stirrup foot, and stray'd 
His broad left hand along the mane 
Of his strong steed, and careless play'd 
His fingers through the silken skein. 

And then he spurr'd him to her side, 
And reach'd his hand and leaning wide. 
He smiling push'd her falling hair 
Back from her brow, and kiss'd her there. 
Yea, touch'd her softly, as if she 
Had been some priceless, tender flower; 
Yet touch'd her as one taking leave 
Of his one love in lofty tower 
Before descending to the sea 
Of battle on his battle eve. 

A distant shout! quick oaths! alarms! 
The black men start, turn suddenly. 
Stand in the stirrup, clutch their arms, 
And bare bright arms all instantly. 
But he, he slowly turns, and he 
Looks all his full soul in her face. 



He does not shout, he does not say, 
But sits serenely in his place 
A time, then slowly turns, looks back 
Between the trim-boughed tamarack. 
And up the winding mountain way. 
To where the long, strong grasses lay. 
And there they came, hot on his track! 

He raised his glass in his two hands, 
Then in his left hand let it fall, 
Then seem'd to count his fingers o'er. 
Then reached his glass, waved his com- 
mands, 
Then tapped his stirrup as before, 
Stood in the stirrup stern and tall, 
Then ran a hand along the mane 
Half-nervous like, and that was all. 

And then he turn'd, and smiled half 
sad. 
Half desperate, then hitch'd his steel; 
Then all his stormy presence had. 
As if he kept once more his keel, 
On listless seas where breakers reel. 

At last he tossed his iron hand 
Above the deep, steep desert space, 
Above the burning seas of sand, 
And look'd his black men in the face. 
They spake not, nor look'd back again. 
They struck the heel, they clutch'd the 

rein, 
And down the darkling plunging steep 
They dropp'd into the dried-up deep. 

Below! It seem'd a league below, 
The black men rode, and she rode well. 
Against the gleaming, sheening haze 
That shone like some vast sea ablaze — 
That seem'd to gleam, to glint, to glow, 
As if it mark'd the shores of hell. 

Then Morgan reined alone, look'd back 
From off the high wall where he stood. 
And watch'd his fierce approaching foe. 
He saw him creep along his track. 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



149 



Saw him descending from the wood, 
And smiled to see how worn and slow. 

And Morgan heard his oath and shout, 
And Morgan turned his head once more, 
And wheel'd his stout steed short about, 
Then seem'd to count their numbers o'er. 
And then his right hand touch'd his steel. 
And then he tapp'd his iron heel, 
And seemed to fight with thought. At 

last 
As if the final die was cast. 
And cast as carelessly as one 
Would toss a white coin in the sun, 
He touched his rein once more, and then 
His right hand laid with idle heed 
Along the toss'd mane of his steed. 

Pursuer and pursued! who knows 
The why he left the breezy pine. 
The fragrant tamarack and vine, 
Eed rose and precious yellow rose! 
Nay, Vasques held the vantage ground 
Above him by the wooded steep. 
And right nor left no passage lay, 
And there was left him but that way, — 
The way through blood, or to the deep 
And lonesome deserts far profound, 
That knew not sight of man, nor sound. 

Hot Vasques reined upon the rim. 
High, bold, and fierce with crag and spire. 
He saw a far gray eagle swim, 
He saw a black hawk wheel, retire. 
And shun that desert's burning breath 
As shunning something more than death. 

Ah, then he paused, turn'd, shook his 
head. 
" And shall we turn aside," he said, 
•' Or dare this Death ?" The men stood still 
As leaning on his sterner will. 
And then he stopp'd and turn'd again. 
And held his broad hand to his brow, 
And look'd intent and eagerly. 



The far white levels of the plain 
Flash'd back like billows. Even now 
He thought he saw rise up 'mid sea, 
'Mid space, 'mid wastes, 'mid nothingness 
A ship becalra'd as in distress. 

The dim sign pass'd as suddenly. 
And then his eager eyes grew dazed, — 
He brought his two hands to his face. 
Again he raised his head, and gazed 
With flashing eyes and visage fierce 
Far out, and resolute to pierce 
The far, far, faint receding reach 
Of space and touch its farther beach. 
He saw but space, unbounded space; 
Eternal space and nothingness. 

Then all wax'd anger'd as they gazed 
Far out upon the shoreless laud. 
And clench'd their doubled hands and 

raised 
Their long bare arms, but utter'd not. 
At last one rode from out the band. 
And raised his arm, push'd back his sleeve, 
Push'd bare his arm, rode up and down. 
With hat push'd back. Then flush'd and 

hot 
He shot sharp oaths like cannon shot. 

Then Vasques was resolved; his form 
Seem'd like a pine blown rampt with 

storm. 
He clutch'd his rein, drove spur, and then 
Turn'd sharp and savage to his men. 
And then led boldly down the way 
To night that knows not night or day. 



How broken plunged the steep descent! 
How barren! Desolate, and rent 
By earthquake's shock, the land lay dead. 
With dust and ashes on its head. 

' Twas as some old world overthrown 
Where Thesus fought and Sappho dream'd 



150 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



In aous ere tbey touch 'd this laud. 

And found their proud souls foot and 

hand 
Bound to the flesh and stung with pain. 
An ugly skeleton it seem'd 
Of its old self. The fiery rain 
Of red volcanoes here had sown 
The desolation of the plain. 
Ay, vanquish'd quite and overthrown. 
And torn with thunder-stroke, and strown 
With cinders, lo! the dead earth lay 
As waiting for the judgment day. 
Why, tamer men had turu'd and said. 
On seeing this, with start and dread. 
And whisper'd each with gather'd breath, 
" We come on the abode of death." 

They wound below a savage bluff 
That lifted, from its sea-mark'd base, 
Great walls with characters cut rough 
And deep by some long-perish'd race; 
And great, strange beasts unnamed, un- 
known. 
Stood hewn and limu'd upon the stone. 

A mournful land as land can be 
Beneath their feet in ashes lay, 
Beside that dread and dried-up sea; 
A city older than that gray 
And sand sown tower builded when 
Confusion cursed the tongues of men. 

Beneath, before, a city lay 
That in her majesty had shamed 
The wolf-nursed conqueror of old; 
Below, before, and far away. 
There reach'd the white arm of a bay, 
A broad bay shrunk to sand and stone, 
Where ships had rode and breakers rol!"d 
When Babylon was yet unnamed. 
And Nimrod's hunting-fields unknown. 

Where sceptered kings had sat at feast 
Some serpents slid from out the grass 
That grew in tufts by sbatter'd stone, 



Then hid beneath seme broken mass 
That time had eaten as a bone 
Is eaten by some savage beast. 

A dull-eyed rattlesnake that lay 
All loathsome, yellow-skinn'd, and slept, 
Coil'd tight as pine-knot, in the sun. 
With flat head through the center run, 
Struck blindly back, then rattling crept 
Flat-bellied down the dusty way . . . 
'Twas all the dead land had to say. 

Two pink-eyed hawks, wide-wing'd and 
gi-ay, 
Scream'd savagely, and, circling high, 
And screaming still in mad dismay, 
Grew dim and died against the sky . . . 
'Twas all the heavens had to say. 

Some low-built junipers at last, 
The last that o'er the desert look'd, 
Where dumb owls sat with bent bills 

hook'd 
Beneath their wings awaiting night, 
Rose up, then faded from the sight. 

What dim ghosts hover on this rim: 
What stately-manner'd shadows swim 
Along these gleaming wastes of sands 
And shoreless limits of dead lands? 

Dread Azteckee! Dead Azteckee! 
White place of ghosts, give up thy dead; 
Give back to Time thy buried hosts! 
The new world's tawny Ishmaelite, 
The roving tent-born Shoshonee, 
Hath shunned thy shores of death, at night 
Because thou art so white, so dread, 
Because thou art so ghostly white, 
And named thy shores " the place of 
ghosts." 

Thy white, uncertain sands are white 
With bones of thy unburied dead, 
That will not perish from the sight. 
They drown, but perish not — ah me! 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



151 



What dread unsightly sights are spread 
Along this lonesome, dried-up sea ? 

Old, hoar, and dried-up sea! so old 
So strown with wealth, so sown with 

gold! 
\'ea, thoTi art old and hoary white 
With time, and ruin of all things; 
And on thy lonesome borders night 
Sits brooding as with wounded wings. 

The winds that toss'd thy waves and 
blew 
Across thy breast the blowing sail, 
And cheer'd the hearts of cheering crew 
From farther seas, no more prevail. 
Thy white-wall'd cities all lie prone, 
With but a pyramid, a stone. 
Set head and foot in sands to tell 
The thirsting stranger where they fell. 

The patient ox that bended low 
His neck, and drew slow up and down 
Thy thousand freights through rock- 
built town 
Is now the free-born buffalo. 
No longer of the timid fold, 
The mountain ram leaps free and bold 
His high-built summit, and looks down 
From battlements of buried town. 

Thine ancient steeds know not the rein; 
They lord the laud; they come, they go 
At will; they laugh at man; they blow 
A cloud of black steeds o'er the plain. 
The winds, the waves, have drawn away — 
The very wild man dreads to stay. 



Away ! upon the sandy seas, 
The gleaming, burning, boundless plain; 
How solemn-like, how still, as when 
The mighty minded Genoese 
Drew three slim ships and led his men 
From land they might not meet again. 



The black men rode in front by two, 
The fair one follow'd close, and kept 
Her face held down as if she wept; 
But Morgan kept the rear, and threw 
His flowing, swaying beard still back 
In watch along their lonesome track. 

The weary day fell down to rest, 
A star upon his mantled breast. 
Ere scarce the sun fell out of space. 
And Venus glimmer'd in his place. 
Yea, all the stars shone just as fair. 
And constellations kept their round. 
And look'd from out the great profound, 
And march'd, and countermarch'd, and 

shone 
Upon that desolation there — 
Why, just the same as if proud man 
Strode up and down array'd in gold 
And purple as in days of old, 
And reckon'd all of his own plan. 
Or made at least for man alone. 

Yet on push'd Morgan silently. 
And straight as strong ship on a sea; 
And ever as he rode there lay — 
To right, to left, and in his way, 
Strange objects looming in the dark, 
Some like tall mast, or ark, or bark. 

And things half-hidden in the sand 
Lay down before them where they pass'd — 
A broken beam, half-buried mast, 
A spar or bar, such as might be 
Blown crosswise, tumbled on the strand 
Of some sail-crowded, stormy sea. 

All night by moon, by morning star. 
The still, black men still kejjt their waj-; 
All night till morn, till burning day 
Hard Vasques follow'd fast and far. 

The sun is high, the sands are hot 
To touch, and all the tawny plain 
Sinks white and open as thej' tread 
And trudge, with half-averted head, 



152 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



As if to swallow them in sand. 
They look, as men look back to land 
When standing out to stormy sea, 
Bnt still keep pace and murmur not; 
Keep stern and still as destiny. 

It was a sight! A slim dog slid 
White-mouth'd and still along the sand, 
The pleading picture of distress. 
He stopp'd, leap'd up to lick a hand, 
A hard, black hand that sudden chid 
Him back, and check'd his tenderness. 
Then when the black man turn'd his head, 
His poor, mute friend had fallen dead. 

The very air hung white with heat. 
And white, and fair, and far away 
A lifted, shining snow-shaft lay 
As if to mock their mad retreat. 
The white, salt sands beneath their feet 
Did make the black men loom as grand. 
From out the lifting, heaving heat, 
As they rode sternly on and on, 
As any bronze men in the land 
That sit their statue steeds upon. 

The men were silent as men dead. 
The sun hung centered overhead. 
Nor seem'd to move. It molten hung 
Like some great central burner swung 
From lofty beams with golden bars 
In sacristy set round with stars. 

Why, flame could hardly be more hot; 
Yet on the mad pursuer came 
Across the gleaming, yielding ground. 
Eight on, as if he fed on flame. 
Eight on until the mid-day found 
The man within a pistol-shot. 

He hail'd, but Morgan answered not; 
He hail'd, then came a feeble shot. 
And strangely, in that vastness there. 
It seem'd to scarcely fret the air. 
But fell down harmless anywhere. 



He fiercely hail'd; and then there fell 
A horse. And then a man fell down. 
And in the sea-sand seem'd to drown. 
Then Vasques cursed, but scarce could 

tell 
The sound of his own voice, and all 
In mad confusion seem'd to fall. 

Yet on pushed Morgan, silent on, 
And as he rode, he lean'd and drew 
From his catenas gold, and threw 
The bright coins in the glaring sun. 
But Vasques did not heed a whit. 
He scarcely deign'd to scowl at it. 

Again lean'd Morgan. He uprose. 
And held a high hand to his foes. 
And held two goblets up, and one 
Did shine as if itself a sun. 
Then leaning backward from his place, 
He hurl'd them in his foemau's face; 
Then drew again, and so kept on. 
Till goblets, gold, and all were gone. 

Yea, strew'd them out upon the sands 
As men upon a frosty morn. 
In Mississippi's fertile lands, 
Hurl out great yellow ears of corn, 
To hungry swine with hurried hands. 

Yet still hot Vasques urges on. 
With flashing eye and flushing cheek. 
What would he have? what does he seek? 
He does not heed the gold a whit. 
He does not deign to look at it; 
But now his gleaming steel is drawn, 
And now he leans, would hail again, — 
He opes his swollen lips in vain. 

But look you! See! A lifted hand. 
And Vasques beckons his command. 
He cannot speak, he leans, and he 
Bends low upon his saddle-bow. 
And now his blade drops to his knee. 
And now he falters, now comes on, 
And now his head is bended low; 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



153 



And now his rein, his steel, is gone; 

Now faint as any child is he; 

And now his steed sinks to the knee. 

The sua hung molten in mid-space, 
Like some great star fix'd in its place. 
From out the gleaming spaces rose 
A sheen of gossamer and danced. 
As Morgan slow and still advanced 
Before his far-receding foes. 
Eight on, and on, the still, black line 
Drove straight through gleaming sand 

and shine, 
By spar and beam and mast, and stray 
And waif of sea and cast away. 

The far peaks faded from their sight, 
The mountain walls fell down like night. 
And nothing now was to be seen 
Except the dim sun hung in sheen 
Of gory garments all blood-red, — 
The hell beneath, the hell o'erhead. 

A black man tumbled from his steed. 
He clutch'd in death the moving sands. 
He caught the hot earth in his hands. 
He gripp'd it, held it hard and grim — 
The great, sad mother did not heed 
His hold, but pass'd right on from him. 



The sun seem'd broken loose at last. 
And settled slowly to the west, 
Half-hidden as he fell to rest, 
Yet, like the flying Parthian, cast 
His keenest arrows as he pass'd. 

On, on, the black men slowly drew 
Their length like some great serpent 

through 
The sands, and left a hoUow'd groove: 
They moved, they scarcely seem'd to move. 
How patient in their muffled tread! 
How like the dead march of the dead! 



At last the slow, black line was check'd, 
An instant only; now again 
It moved, it falter d now, and now 
It settled iu its sandy bed, 
And steeds stood rooted to the plain. 
Then all stood still, and men somehow 
Look'd down and with averted head; 
Look'd down, nor dared look up, nor 

reck'd 
Of anything, of ill or good, 
But bow'd and stricken still thej- stood. 

Like some brave baud that dared the 
fierce 
And bristled steel of gather'd host. 
These daring men had dared to pierce 
This awful vastness, dead and gray. 
And now at last brought well at bay 
They stood, — but each stood to his post. 

Then one dismounted, waved a hand, 
' Twas Morgan's stern and still command. 
There fell a clank, like loosen 'd chain, 
As men dismounting loosed the rein. 
Then every steed stood loosed and free; 
And some stepp'd slow and mute aside, 
And some sank to the sands and died; 
And some stood still as shadows be. 

Old Morgan turn'd and raised his hand 
And laid it level with his eyes. 
And looked far back along the land. 
He saw a dark dust still uprise, 
Still surely tend to where he lay. 
He did not curse, he did not say — 
He did not even look surprise. 

Nay, he was over-gentle now; 
He wiped a time his Titan brow, 
Then sought dark Sybal in her place, 
Pat out his arms, put down his face 
And look'd in hers. She reach'd hei 

hands, 
She lean'd, she fell upon his breast; 
He reach'd his arms around; she lay 
As lies a bird in leafy nest. 



154 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



And belook'd out across the sands 
And bearing her, he strode away. 

Some black men settled down to rest, 
But none made murmur or request. 
The dead were dead, and that were best; 
The living, leaning, foUow'd him, 
A long dark line of shadow dim. 

The day through high mid-heaven rode 
Across the sky, the dim, red day; 
And on, the war-like day-god strode 
With shoulder'd shield away, away. 
The savage, war-like day bent low, 
As reapers bend in gathering grain, 
As archer bending bends yew bow, 
And flush'd and fretted as in pain. 

Then down his shoulder slid his shield. 
So huge, so awful, so blood-red 
And batter 'd as from battle-field: 
It settled, sunk to his left hand, 
Sunk down and down, it touch'd the sand ; 
Then day along the land lay dead, 
Without one candle, foot or head. 

And now the moon wheel'd white and 

vast, 
A round, unbroken, marbled moon. 
And touch'd the far, bright buttes of 

snow, 
Then climb'd their shoulders over soon; 
And there she seem'd to sit at last, 
To hang, to hover there, to grow. 
Grow grander than vast peaks of snow. 

She sat the battlements of time; 
She shone in mail of frost and rime 
A time, and then rose up and stood 
In heaven in sad widowhood. 

The faded moon fell wearily, 
And then the sun right suddenly 
Rose up full arm'd, and rushing came 
Across the land like flood of flame. 



And now it seemed that hills uprose. 
High push'd against the arching skies, 
As if to meet the sudden sun — 
Eose sharp from out the sultry dun, 
And seem'd to hold the free repose 
Of lands where flow'ry summits rise, 
In unfenced fields of Paradise. 

The black men look'd up from the sands 
Against the dim, uncertain skies, 
As men that disbelieved their eyes, 
xind would have laugh'd; they wept in- 
stead. 
With shoulders heaved, with bowing head 
Hid down between the two black hands. 

They stood and gazed. Lo! like the call 
Of spring-time promises, the trees 
Lean'd from their lifted mountain wall. 
And stood clear cut against the skies, 
As if they grew in pistol-shot; 
Yet all the mountains answer'd not, 
And yet there came no cooling breeze, 
Nor soothing sense of wind-wet trees. 

At last old Morgan, looking through 
His shaded fingers, let them go, 
And let his load fall down as dead. 
He groan'd, he clutch'd his beard of snow 
As was his wont, then bowing low, 
Took up his life, and moaning said, 
"Lord Christ! 'tis the mirage, and we 
Stand blinded in a burning sea." 



Again they move, but where or how 
It recks them little, nothing now. 
Yet Morgan leads them as before. 
But totters now; he bends, and he 
Is like a broken ship a-sea, — 
A ship that knows not any shore. 
Nor rudder, nor shall anchor more. 

Some leaning shadows crooning crept 
Through desolation, crown'd in dust. 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



155 



And had the mad pursuer kept 
His path, aud cherish'd his pursuit? 
There lay no choice. Advance, he must: 
Advance, aud eat his ashen fruit. 

Again the still moon rose aud stood 
Above the dim, dark belt of wood. 
Above the buttes, above the snow, 
And bent a sad, sweet face below. 
She reach'd along the level plain 
Her long, white fingers. Then again 
She reach'd, she touch'd the snowy sands. 
Then reach'd far out until she touch'd 
A heap that lay with doubled hands, 
Eeach'd from its sable self, aud clutch'd 
With patient death. O tenderly 
That black, that dead and hollow face 

Was kiss'd at midnight What if I say 

The long, white moonbeams reaching 

there, 
Caressiug idle hands of clay. 
And resting on the wrinkled hair 
And great lij^s push'd iu sullen pout, 
Were God's own fingers reaching out 
From heaven to that lonesome place? 



By waif and stray aud cast-away. 
Such as are seen iu seas withdrawn, 
Old Morgan led in silence on; 
Aud sometimes liiting up his head. 
To guide his footsteps as he led, 
He deem'd he saw a great ship lay 
Her keel along the sea-wash'd sand. 
As with her captain's old command. 

The stars were seal'd; and then a haze 
Of gossamer till'd all the west, 
So like in Indian summer days, 
And veil'd all things. And then the moon 
Grew pale, and faint, and far. She died. 
And now nor star nor auy sign 
Fell out of heaven. Oversoon 
A black man fell. Then at his side 



Some one sat down to watch, to rest — 
To rest, to watch, or what you will, 
The man sits resting, watching still. 

XX. 

The day glared through the eastern rim 
Of rocky peaks, as prison bars. 
With light as dim as distant stars. 
The sultry sunbeams filter'd down 
Through misty j)hantoms weird aud dim, 
Through shifting shapes bat-wing'd aud 
brown. 

Like some vast ruin wrapp"d in flame 
The sun fell down before them now. 
Behind them wheel'd white i^eaks of snow, 
As they proceeded. Gray aud grim 
Aud awful objects went and came 
Before them all. They pierced at last 
The desert's middle depths, and lo! 
There loom'd from out the desert vast 
A lonely ship, well-built and trim, 
And perfect all iu hull aud mast. 

No storm hadstain'd it any whit, 
No seasons set their teeth in it. 
Her masts were white as ghosts, aud tall; 
Her decks were as of yesterday. 
The rains, the elements, and all 
The moving things that bring decay 
By fair green lands or fairer seas, 
Had touch'd not here for centuries. 
Lo! date had lost all reckoning, 
And time had long forgotten all 
In this lost land, and no new thing 
Or old could anywise befall, 
For Time went by the other way. 

What dreams of gold or conquest drew 
The oak-built sea-king to these seas, 
Ere earth, old earth, unsatisfied. 
Rose up and shook man iu disgust 
From off her wearied breast, and threw 
His high-built cities down, and dried 
These unnamed ship-sown seas to dust? 



156 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



Who trod these decks? What captain 

knew 
The straits that led to lauds like these? 

Blew south-sea breeze or north-sea 

breeze ? 
What spiced-winds whistled through this 

sail? 
What banners stream'd above these seas? 
And what strange seaman answer'd back 
To other sea-king's beck and hail, 
That blew across his foamy track? 

Sought Jason here the golden fleece? 
Came Trojan ship or ships of Greece? 
Came decks dark-mann'd from sultry Ind, 
Woo'd here by spacious wooing wind? 
So like a grand, sweet woman, when 
A great love moves her soul to men? 

Came here strong ships of Solomon 

In quest of Ophir by Cathay ? 

Sit down and dream of seas withdrawn, 
And every sea-breath drawn away. 
Sit down, sit down! What is the good 
That we go on still fashioning 
Great iron ships or walls of wood. 
High masts of oak, or anything? 

Lo! all things moving must go by. 
The seas lie dead. Behold, this land 
Sits desolate in dust beside 
His snow-white, seamless shroud of sand; 
The very clouds have wept and died. 
And only God is in the sky. 



The sands lay heaved, as heaved by 

waves. 
As fashioned in a thousand graves: 
And wrecks of storm blown here and 

there. 
And dead men scatter'd everywhere; 
And strangely clad they seem'd to be 
Just as they sank in that dread sea. 



The mermaid with her golden hair 
Had clung about a wreck's beam there. 
And sung her song of sweet despair, 
The time she saw the seas withdrawn 
And all her pride and glory gone: 
Had sung her melancholy dirge 
Above the last receding surge. 
And, looking down the rippled tide, 
Had sung, and with her song had died. 

The monsters of the sea lay bound 
In strange contortions. Coil'd around 
A mast half heaved above the sand 
The great sea-serpent's folds were found, 
As solid as ship's iron baud; 
And basking in the burning sun 
There rose the great whale's skeleton. 

A thousand sea things stretch'd across 
Their weary and be wilder 'd way: 
Great unnamed monsters wrinkled lay 
With sunken eyes and shrunken form. 
The strong sea-horse that rode the storm 
With mane as light and white as floss, 
Lay tangled in his mane of moss. 

And anchor, hull, and cast-away, 
And all things that the miser deep 
Doth in his darkling locker keep. 
To right and left around them lay. 
Yea, golden coin and golden cup. 
And golden cruse, and golden plate. 
And all that great seas swallow up. 
Eight in their dreadful pathway lay. 
The hoary sea made white with time. 
And wrinkled cross with many a crime, 
With all his treasured thefts lay there, 
His sins, his very soul laid bare, 
As if it were the Judgment Day. 



And now the tawny night fell soon. 
And there was neither star nor moon; 
And yet it seem'd it was not night. 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



157 



TTiere fell a phosphorescent light, 

There rose from white sands and dead 

men 
A soft light, white and strange as when 
The Spirit of Jehovah moved 
Upon the water's conscious face. 
And made it His abiding place. 

Remote, around the lonesome ship, 
Old Morgan moved, but knew it not. 
For neither star nor moon fell down .... 
I trow that was a lonesome spot 
He found, where boat and ship did dip 
In sands like some half-sunken town. 

At last before the leader lay 
A form that in the night did seem 
A slain Goliath. As in a dream, 
He drew aside in his slow pace, 
And look'd. He saw a sable face ^ 
A friend that fell that very day. 
Thrown straight across his wearied way. 

He falter 'd now. His iron heart, 
That never yet refused its part. 
Began to fail him; and his strength 
Shook at his knees, as shakes the wind 
A shatter'd ship. His shatter'd mind 
Eanged up and down the land. At length 
He turn'd, as ships turn, tempest toss'd. 
For now he knew that he was lost! 
He sought in vain the moon, the stars. 
In vain the battle-star of Mars. 

Again he moved. And now again 
He paused, he peer'd along the plain. 
Another form before him lay. 
He stood, and statue-white he stood, 
He trembled like a stormy wood, — 
It was a foeman brawn and gray. 

He lifted up his head again, 
Again he search'd the great profound 
For moon, for star, but sought in vain. 
He kept his circle round and round 



The great ship lifting from the sand, 
And pointing heavenward like a hand. 

And still he crept along the plain. 
Yet where his foeman dead again 
Lay in his way he moved around, « 
And soft as if on sacred ground, 
And did not touch him anywhere. 
It might have been he had a dread, 
In his half-crazed and fever'd brain, 
His fallen foe might rise again 
If he should dare to touch him there. 

He circled round the lonesome ship 
Like some wild beast within a wall, 
That keeps his paces round and round. 
The very stillness had a sound; 
He saw strange somethings rise and dip; 
He felt the weirdness like a pall 
Come down and cover him. It seem'd 
To take a form, take many forms, 
To talk to him, to reach out arms; 
Yet on he kept, and silent kept, 
And as he led he lean'd and slept. 
And as he slept he talk'd and dream'd. 

Two shadows follow'd, stopp'd, and 

stood 
Bewilder'd, wander'd back again, 
Came on and then fell to the sand, 
And sinking died. Then other men 
Did wag their woolly heads and laugh, 
Then bend their necks and seem to quaff 
Of cooling waves that careless flow 
Where woods and long, strong grasses 

grow. 

Yet on wound Morgan, leaning low, 
With her upon his breast, and slow 
As hand upon a dial plate. 
He did not turn his course or quail. 
He did not falter, did not fail, 
Turn right or left or hesitate. 

Some far-off sounds had lost their way, 
And seem'd to call to him and pray 



158 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



For help, as if they were affright. 
It was not day, it seem'd not night. 
But that dim land that lies between 
The mournful, faithful face of night, 
And loud and gold-bedazzled day; 
A n^ht that was not felt but seen. 

There seem'd not now the ghost of 
sound, 
He stepp'd as soft as step the dead; 
Yet on he led in solemn tread, 
Bewilder'd, blinded, round and round, 
About the great black shij) that rose 
Tall-masted as that ship that blows 
Her ghost below lost Panama, — 
The tallest mast man ever saw. 

Two leaning shadows follow'd him : 
Their eyes were red, their teeth shone 

white, 
Their limbs did lift as shadows swim. 
Then one went left and one went right, 
And in the night pass'd out of sight; 
Pass'd through the portals black, un- 
known, 
And Morgan totter'd on alone. 

And why he still survived the rest, 
Why still he had the strength to stir, 
Why still he stood like gnarled oak 
That buffets storm and tempest stroke. 
One cannot say, save but for her. 
That helpless being on his breast. 

She did not speak, she did not stir; 
In ivippled currents over her. 
Her black, abundant hair pour'd down 
Like mantle or some sable gown. 
That sad, sweet dreamer; she who knew 
Not anything of earth at all. 
Nor cared to know its bane or bliss; 
That dove that did not touch the land. 
That knew, yet did not understand. 
And this may be because she drew 
Her all of life right from the hand 



Of God, and did not choose to learo 
The things that make up mans coa> 
ceru. 



Ah ! there be souls none understand; 
Like clouds, they cannot touch the land. 
Unanchored ships, they blow and blow, 
Sail to and fro, and then go down 
In unknown seas that none shall know. 
Without one ripple of renown. 

Call these not fools; the test of woith 
Is not the hold you have of earth. 
Ay, there be gentlest souls sea-blown 
That know not any harbor known. 
Now it may be the reason is. 
They touch on fairer shores than this. 



At last he touch'd a fallen group. 
Dead fellows tumbled in the sands, 
Dead foemen, gather'd to their dead. 
And eager now the man did stoop. 
Lay down his load and reach his hands, 
And stretch his form and look stead- 
fast 
And frightful, and as one aghast. 
He leau'd, and then he i-aised his head, 
And look'd for Vasques, but in vain 
He peer'd along the deadly plain. 

Now, from the night another face 
The last that follow'd through the deep, 
Comes on, falls dead within a pace. 
Yet Vasques still survives! But where? 
His last bold follower lies there, 
Thrown straight across old Morgan'.s 

track, 
As if to check him, bid him back. 
He stands, he does not dare to stir, 
He watches by his charge asleep. 
He fears for her: but only her. 
The man who ever mock'd at death, 
He only dares to draw his breath. 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



159 



Beyond, and still as black despair, 
A man rose up, stood dark and tall, 
Stretch'd out his neck, reach'd forth, let 

fall 
Dark oaths, and Death stood waiting 

there. 

He drew his blade, came straight as 
death 
For Morgan's last and most eudear'd. 
I think no man there drew a breath, 
I know that no man quail'd or fear'd. 

A tawny dead man stretch'd between, 
And Vasques set his foot thereoa. 
The stars were seal'd, the moon was 

gone, 
The very darkness cast a shade. 
The scene was rather heard than seen, 
The rattle of a single blade .... 

A right foot rested on the dead, 
A black hand reach'd and clutch'd a 

beard, 
Then neither pray'd, nor dream'd of 

hope. 
A fierce face reach'd, a black face peer'd .... 
No bat went whirling overhead, 
No star fell out of Ethiope. 

The dead man lay between them there. 
The two men glared as tigers glare, — 
The black man held him by the beard. 
He wound his hand, he held him fast. 
And tighter held, as if he fear'd 
The man might 'scape him at the last. 
Whiles Morgan did not speak or stir. 
But stood in silent watch with her. 

Not long A light blade lifted, thrust, 

A blade that leapt and swept about, 

So wizard-like, like wand in spell, 

So like a serpent's tongue thrust out .... 



Thrust twice, thrust thrice, thrust as he 

fell. 
Thrust through until it touched the 

dust. 

Yet ever as he thriist and smote, 
A black hand like an iron baud 
Did tighten round a gasping throat. 
He fell, but did not loose his hand; 
The two lay dead upon the sand. 

Lo! up and from the fallen forms 
Two ghosts came, dark as gathered storms; 
Two gray ghosts stood, then looking 

back; 
With hands all empty, and hands clutch'd, 
Strode on in silence. Then they touch'd, 
xVlong the lonesome, chartless track. 
Where dim Plutonian darkness fell, 
Then touch'd the outer rim of hell; 
And looking back their great despair 
Sat sadly down, as resting there. 



As if there was a strength in death 
The battle seem'd to nerve the man 
To superhuman strength. He rose, 
Held up his head, began to scan 
The heavens and to take his breath 
Right strong and lustily. He now 
Resumed his part, and with his eye 
Fix'd on a star that filter'd through 
The farther west, push'd bare his brow, 
And kept his course with head held 

high, 
As if he strode his deck and drew 
His keefl below some lofty light 
That watch'd the rocky reef at night. 

How lone he was, how patient she 
Upon that lonesome sandy sea! 
It were a sad, unpleasant sight 
To follow them through all the night, 



i6o 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



Until the time they lifted hand, 
And tonch'd at last a water'd land. 



The turkeys walk'd the tangled grass, 
And scarcely titrn'd to let them pass, 
There was no sign of man, nor sign 
Of savage beast. 'Twas so divine. 
It seem'd as if the bended skies 
Were rounded for this Paradise. 

The large-eyed antelope came down 
From off their windy hills, and blew 
Their whistles as they wander'd through 
The open groves of water'd wood; 
They came as light as if on wing, 
And reached their noses wet and brown 
And stamp'd their little feet and stood 
Close up before them wondering. 

What if this were that Eden old, 
They found in this heart of the new 
And unnamed westmost world of gold. 
Where date and history had birth. 
And man began first wandering 
To go the girdle of the earth. 
And find the beaiitiful and true? 



It lies a little isle mid land. 
An island in a sea of sand; 
With reedy waters and the balm 
Of an eternal summer air; 
Some blowy pines toss tall and fair; 
And there are grasses long and strong. 
And tropic fruits that never fail: 
The Manzanita pulp, the palm. 
The prickly pear, with all the song 
Of summer birds. And 

quail 
Makes nest, and you may hear 

call 
All day from out the chaparral. 



there 



the 



her 



A land where white man never trod. 
And Morgan seems some demi-god, 



That haunts the red man's spirit land. 
A land where never red man's hand 
Is lifted up in strife at all, 
But holds it sacred unto those 
Who bravely fell before their foes, 
And rarely dares its desert wall. 

Here breaks nor sound of strife nor 
sign; 
Rare times a chieftain comes this way. 
Alone, and battle-scan-'d and gray. 
And then he bends devout before 
The maid who keeps the cabin-door. 
And deems her something all divine. 

Within the island's heart 'tis said. 
Tall trees are bending down with 

bread. 
And that a fountain pure as Truth, 
And deep and mossy-bound and fair, 
Is bubbling from the forest there. — 
Perchance the fabled fount of youth! 
An isle where skies are ever fair. 
Where men keep never date nor day, 
AVhere Time has thrown his glass away. 

This isle is all their own. No more 
The flight by day, the watch by 

night. 
Dark Sybal twines dbout the door 
The scarlet blooms, the blossoms white 
And winds red berries in her hair. 
And never knows the name of care. 



She has a thousand birds; they blow 
In rainbow clouds, in clouds of snow; 
The birds take berries from her hand; 
They come and go at her command. 

She has a thousand pretty birds. 
That sing her summer songs all day; 
Small, black-hoof'd antelope in herds. 
And squirrels bushy-tail'd and gray, 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



l6l 



With rouud and sparkling eyes of pink, 
And cunning-faced as you can think. 

She has a thousand busy birds: 
And is she happy in her isle, 
With all her feather'd friends and herds ? 
For when has Morgan seen her smile ? 

She has a thousand cunning birds, 
They would build nestings in her hair, 
She has brown antelope in herds; 
She never knows the name of care; 
Why, then, is she not happy there ? 

All patiently she bears her part; 
She has a thousand birdlings there. 



These birds they would build in her 

hair; 
But not one bird builds in her heart. 

She has a thousand birds; yet she 
Would give ten thousand cheerfully. 
All bright of plume and pure of tongue. 
And sweet as ever trilled or sung, 
For one small flutter'd bird to come 
And build within her heart, though 
dumb. 

She has a thousand birds; yet one 
Is lost, and, lo! she is undone. 
She sighs sometimes. She looks away. 
And yet she does not weep or say. 



"The Ship in the Desert" was first published iu London— Chapman and Hall, 1876. It was nearly twice its 
present length and was dedicated To my Parents in Orkoon, as follows: 

With deep reverence I inscribe these lines, ray dear parents, to you. I see you now, away beyond the seas — 
beyond the lands where the sun goes down in the Pacific like some great ship of fire, resting still on the green 
hills, waiting 

"Where rolls the Oregon 
And hears no sound save its own dashing." 

Nearly a quarter of a century ago you took me the long and lonesome half-year's journey across the mighty 
continent, wild and rent and broken up and sown with sand and ashes and crossed by tumbling wooded rivers 
that ran as if glad to get away, fresh and strange and new, as if but half-fashioned from the hand of God. All 
the time as I tread this strange land I re-live those scenes, and you are with me. How dark and deep, how 
sullen, strong and lionlike the mighty Missouri rolled between his walls of untracked wood and cleft the un- 
known domain of the middle world before us! Then the frail and buffeted rafts on the river, the women and 
children huddled together, the shouts of the brawny men as they swam with the bellowing cattle, the cows 
in the stormy stream eddying, whirling, spinning about, calling to their young, their bright horns shining in the 
sun. The wild men waiting on the other side; painted savages, leaning on their bows, despising our weak- 
ness, opening a way, letting us pass on to the unknown distances, where they saidthe sun and moon lay 
down together and brought forth the stars. The long and winding lines of wagons, the graves by the way- 
side, the women weeping together as they passed on. Then hiUs, then plains, parched lands like Syria, dust 
and alkali, cold streams with woods, camps by night, great wood fires in circles, tents in the center like Caesar's 
battle camps, painted juen that passed like shadows, showers of arrows, the wild beasts howling from the 
hills. You, my dear parents, will pardon the thread of fiction on which 1 have strung these scenes and de- 
scriptions of a mighty land of mystery, and wild and savage grandeur, for the world will have its way, and, like 
a spoiled child, demands a tale— 

"Yea, 
We who toil and earn our bread, still have our masters." 



A ragged and broken story it is, with long deserts, with alkali and ashes, yet it may, like the land it deals of, 
have some green places, and woods and running waters, where you can rest. 

Three times now I have ranged the great West in fancy, as I did in fact for twenty years and gathered un- 
known and unnamed blossoms from mountain top, from desert land, where man never ranged before, and asked 



l62 



THE SHIP IN THE DESERT. 



the West to receive my weeds, my grasses and blue-eyed blossoms. But here it ends. Good or bad, I have done 
enough of this work on the border The Orient promises a more grateful harvest I have been true to my 
West. She has been my only love. I have remembered her greatness. I have done my work to show to the 
world her vastness, her riches, her resources, her valor and her di^'uity, her poetry and her grandeur. Yet 
while I was going on working so in silence, what were the things she said of me? But let that pass, my dear 
parents. Others will come after us. Possibly I have blazed out the trail for great minds over this field, as 
you did across the deserts and plains for great men a quarter of a century ago. Joaquin Miller, 

Lake Como, Italy. 

I had bought laud near Naples, along with a young Englishman intending to settle down there: but we both 
were stricken with malarial fever; he died, and I, broken and sick at heart for my mountains, finally came home. 

The author of Cleopatra, a man of great and varied endowments, laid a strong hand to the fashioning of 
this poem, and in return I made mention of his Sybals and Semiramis. We knew, in Rome, and loved much the 
woman herein described. In truth, I never created any one of my men or women or scenes entirely. 

As for the story of the ship in the desert, it is old, old. You can see the tide marks of an ocean even from 
your car window as j ou glide around Salt Lake, hundreds of feet up the steeps. The mighty Colorado Canon was 
made by the breaking away of this ocean, you find oyster shells and petrified salt water fish in the Rocky Moun- 
tains, and a stranded ship in the desert is quite in line with these facts. 

The body of this poem was first published in the Atlantic Monthly. The purpose of it was the same as 
induced the Isles of the Amazons, but the work is better because more true and nearer to the heart. Bear in mind 
it was done when the heart of the continent was indeed a desert, or at least a wilderness. How much or how little 
it may have had to do in bringing Europe this way to seek for the lost Edens, and to make the desert blossom as 
the rose, matters nothing now; but, " He hath brought many captives home to Rome whose ransom did the gen- 
erous coffers fill." 

The Hiohts, May, '97. 




PICTURES. 



163 



PICTURES. 

My brave tvorld-huilders of the West! 
Why, who doth know ye? Who shall knovj 
But I, that on thy peaks of snow 
Brake bread the first ? Who loves ye best / 
Who holds ye still, of more stei'n worth 
Than all proud peoples of the earthl 

Yea, I, the rhymer of wild rhymes. 

Indifferent of blame or praise. 

Still sing of ye, as one who plays 

The same sweet air in all strange climes — 

The same wild, piercing highland air. 

Because — because, his heart is there. 



THE SIEERAS FROM THE SEA. 



Like fragmeuts of au uncompleted world, 
From bleak Alaska, bound in ice and 

spray. 
To where the peaks of Darien lie curl'd 
In clouds, the broken lands loom bold and 

gray. 
The seamen neariug San Francisco Bay 
Forget the compass here; with sturdy hand 
They seize the wheel, look up, then bravely 

lay 
The ship to shore by rugged peaks that 

stand 
The stern and proud patrician fathers of 

the land. 



They stand white stairs of heaven, — 
stand a line 
Of lifting, endless, and eternal white. 
They look upon the far and flashing brine. 



Upon the boundless plains, the broken 

height 
Of Kamiakin's battlements. The flight 
Of time is underneath their untopp'd 

towers. 
They seem to push aside the moon at night. 
To jostle and to loose the stars. The 

flowers 
Of heaven fall about their brows in shin- 
ing showers. 



They stand in line of lifted snowy isles 
High held above the toss'd and tumbled 

sea, — 
A sea of wood in wild unmeasured miles: 
White pyramids of Faith where man is 

free; 
White monuments of Hope that yet shall 

be 
The mounts of matchless and immortal 

song 



164 



PICTURES. 



I look far down the hollow days; I see 
The bearded prophets, simple-soul'd and 

strong, 
That strike the sounding harp and thrill 

the heeding throng. 



Serene and satisfied! supreme! as lone 
As God, they loom like God's archangels 

churl'd; 
They look as cold as kings upon a throne; 
The mantling wings of night are crush'd 

and curl'd 
As feathers curl. The elements are hurl'd 
From off their bosoms, and are bidden go. 
Like evil spirits, to an under-world. 
They stretch from Cariboo to Mexico, 
A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow. 



WHEEE EOLLS THE OEEGON. 

See once these stately scenes, then roam 
no more; 
No more remains on earth to cultured 

eyes; 
The cataract comes down, a broken roar. 
The palisades defy approach, and rise 
Green moss'd and dripping to the clouded 

skies. 
The canon thunders with its full of foam, 
And calls loud-mouth'd, and all the land 

defies; 
The mounts make fellowship and dwell at 

home 
In snowy brotherhood beneath their pur- 
pled dome. 

The rainbows swim in circles round, and 

rise 
Against the hanging granite walls till lost 
In drifting dreamy clouds and dappled 

skies, 
A grand mosaic intertwined and toss'd 



Along the mighty caiion, bound and cross'd 
By storms of screaming birds of sea and 

land; 
The salmon rush below, bright red and 

boss'd 
In silver. Tawny, tall, on either hand 
You see the savage spearman nude and 

silent stand. 
Here sweep the wide wild waters cold and 

white 
And blue in their far depths; divided now 
By sudden swift canoe as still and light 
As feathers nodding from the painted brow 
That lifts and looks from out the imaged 

prow. 
Ashore you hear the papoose shout at 

play; 
The curl'd smoke comes from underneath 

the bough 
Of leaning fir: the wife looks far away 
And sees a swift slim bark divide the 

dashing spray. 

Slow drift adown the river's level'd deep, 
And look above; lo, columns! woods! the 

snow! 
The rivers rush upon the brink and leap 
From oiit the clouds three thousand feet 

below. 
And land afoam in tops of firs that grow 
Against your river's rim: they plash, they 

play 
In clouds, now loud and now subdued and 

slow, 
A thousand thunder tones; they swing and 

sway 
In idle winds, long leaning shafts of shin 

ing spray. 

An Indian summer-time it was, long 

past. 
We lay on this Columbia, far below 
The stormy water falls, and God had 

cast 
Us heaven's stillness. Dreamily and 

slow 



PICTURES. 



165 



We drifted as the light bark chose to go. 
An Indian girl with ornaments of shell 
Began to sing. . . . The stars may hold such 

flow 
Of hair, such eyes, but rarely earth. There 

fell 
A sweet enchantment thatpossess'd me as 

a spell. 

We saw the elk forsake the sable 

wood, 
Step quick across the rim of shining 

sand, 
Breast out unscared against the flashing 

flood. 
Then brisket deep with lifted antlers stand, 
And ears alert, look sharp on either 

hand. 
Then whistle shrill to dam and doubting 

fawn 
To cross, then lead with black nose to the 

land. 
They cross'd, they climb'd the heaving 

hills, were gone, 
A sturdy charging line with crooked sabers 

drawn. 



Then black swans cross'd us slowly low 
and still; 

Then other swans, wide-wing'd and white 
as snow, 

Flew overhead and topp'd the timber'd 
hill. 

And call'd and sang afar, coarse-voiced and 
slow, 

Till sounds roam'd lost in somber firs be- 
low .... 

Then clouds blew in, and all the sky was 
cast 

With tumbled and tumultuous clouds that 
grow 

Bed thunderbolts A flash! A thunder- 
blast! 

The clouds were rent, and lo! Mount Hood 
hung white and vast. 



PICTUEE OF A BULL. 

Once, morn by morn, when snowy 

mountains flamed 
With sudden shafts of light that shot a 

flood 
Into the vale like fiery arrows aim'd 
At night from mighty battlements, there 

stood 
Upon a cliff' high-Iimn'd against Mount 

Hood, 
A matchless bull, fresh forth from sable 

wold. 
And standing so seem'd grander 'gainst 

the wood 
Than winged bull that stood with tips of 

gold 
Beside the brazen gates of Nineveh of 

old. 

A time he toss'd the dewy turf, and 
then 
Stretch'd forth his wrinkled neck, and 

loud 
He call'd above the far abodes of men 
Until his breath became a curling cloud 
And wreathed about his neck a misty 

shroud. 
He then as sudden as he came pass'd on 
With lifted head, majestic and most proud, 
And lone as night in deepest wood with- 
drawn 
He roamed in silent rage until another 
dawn. 

What drove the hermit from the valley 

herd. 
What cross of love, what cold neglect of 

kind. 
Or scorn of unpretending worth had 

stirr'd 
The stubborn blood and drove him forth 

to find 
A fellowship in mountain cloud and wind, 
I ofttime wonder'd much; and ofttime 

thought 



i66 



PICTURES. 



The beast betray'd a royal monarch's 

mind, 
To lift above the low herd's common lot, 
And make them hear him still when they 

had fain forgot. 



VAQUERO. 

His broad-brimm'd hat push'd back with 

careless air. 
The proud vaquero sits his steed as free 
As winds that toss his black abundant 

hair. 
No rover ever swept a lawless sea 
With such a haught and heedless air as he 
Who scorns the path, and bounds with 

swift disdain 
Away, a peon born, yet born to be 
A splendid king; behold him ride, and 

reign. 

How brave he takes his herds in brand- 
ing days, 
On timber'd hills that belt about the plain; 
He climbs, he wheels, he shouts through 

winding ways 
Of hiding ferns and hanging fir; the rein 
Is loose, the rattling spur drives swift; 

the mane 
Blows free; the bullocks rush in storms 

before; 
They turn with lifted heads, they rush 

again. 
Then sudden plunge from out the wood, 

and pour 
A cloud upon the plain with one terrific 

roar. 

Kow sweeps the tawny man on stormy 
steed. 
His gaudy trappings toss'd about and 

blown 
About the limbs as lithe as any reed; 
The swift long lasso twirl'd above is thrown 



From flying hand; the fall, the fearful 

groan 
Of bullock toil'd and tumbled in the dust — 
The black herds onward sweep, and all 

disown 
The fallen, struggling monarch that has 

thrust 
His tongue in rage and roU'd his red eyes 

in disgust. 



IN THE GREAT EMEEALD LAND. 

A morn in Oregon! The kindled camp 
Upon the mountain brow that broke below 
In steep and grassy stairway to the damp 
And dewy valley, snapp'd and flamed aglow 
With knots of pine. Above, the peaks of 

snow. 
With under-belts of sable forests, rose 
And flash'd in sudden sunlight. To and 

fro 
And far below, in lines and winding 

rows, 
The herders drove their bands, and broke 

the deep repose. 

I heard their shouts like sounding hun- 
ter's horn, 

The lowing herds made echoes faraway; 

When lo! the clouds came driving in with 
morn 

Toward the sea, as fleeing from the day. 

The valleys fill'd with curly clouds. They 
lay 

Below, a levell'd sea that reach'd and 
rolld 

And broke like breakers of a stormy bay 

Against the grassy shingle fold on fold, 

So like a splendid ocean, snowy white and 
cold. 

The peopled valley lay a hidden world. 
The shouts were shouts of drowning men 
that died, 



PICTURES. 



167 



The broken clouds along the border 

curl'd, 
And beut the gi-ass with weighty freight 

of tide. 
A savage stood in silence at my side, 
Then sudden threw aback his beaded 

strouds 
And stretch'd his hand above the scene, 

and cried. 
As all the laud lay dead in suowy shrouds : 
"Behold! the sun bathes in a silver sea 

of clouds." 

Here lifts the land of clouds! Fierce 

mountaiu forms. 
Made white with everlasting snows, look 

down 
Through mists of many canons, mighty 

storms 
That stretch from Autumn's purple, drench 

and drown 
The yellow hem of Spring. Tall cedars 

frown 
Dark-brow'd, through banner'd clouds that 

stretch and stream 
Above the sea from snowy mountain 

crown. 
The heavens roll, and all things drift or 

seem 
To drift about and drive like some majestic 

dream. 



In waning Autumn time, when purpled 
skies 

Begin to haze in indolence below 

The snowy peaks, you see black forms 
arise. 

In rolling thunder banks above, and 
throw 

Quick barricades about the gleaming 
snow. 

The strife begins! The battling seasons 
stand 

Broad breast to breast. A flash! Conten- 
tious grow 



Terrific. Thunders crash, and lightnings 

brand 
The battlements. The clouds possess the 

conquered land. 

The clouds blow by, the swans take 

loftier flight. 
The yellow blooms burst out upon the hill, 
The purple camas comes as in a night. 
Tall spiked and dripping of the dews that 

fill 
The misty valley. Sunbeams break and 

spill 
Their glory till the vale is full of noon. 
The roses belt the streams, no bird is still. 
The stars, as large as lilies, meet the moon 
And sing of summer, born thus sudden 

full and soon. 



PILGEIMS OF THE PLAINS. 

A tale half told and hardly understood; 
The talk of bearded men that chanced to 

meet, 
That lean'd on long quaint rifles in the 

wood. 
That look'd in fellow faces, spoke dis- 
creet 
And low, as half in doubt and in defeat 
Of hope; a tale it was of lands of gold 
That lay toward the sun. Wild wing'd 

and fleet 
It spread among the swift Missouri's bold 
Unbridled men, and reach'd to where Ohio 
roU'd. 

Then long chain'd lines of yoked and 

patient steers ; 
Then long white trains that pointed to the 

west, 
Beyond the savage west; the hopes and 

fears 
Of blunt, untutor'd men, who hardly 

guess'd 



1 68 



PICTURES. 



Their course; the brave and silent women, 

dress'd 
In homely spun attire, the boys in bands, 
The cheery babes that laugh'd at all, and 

bless'd 
The doubting hearts with laughing lifted 

hands! 

What exodus for far untraversed lands! 

The Plains! The shouting drivers at the 

wheel; 
The crash of leather whips; the crush and 

roll 
Of wheels; the groan of yokes and grinding 

steel 
And iron chain, and lo! at last the whole 
Vast line, that reach'd as if to touch the 

goal. 
Began to stretch and stream away and 

wind 
Toward the west, as if with one control; 
Then hope loom'd fair, and home lay far 

behind; 
Before, the boundless plain, and fiercest 

of their kind. 

At first the way lay green and fresh as 

seas. 
And far away as any reach of wave; 
The sunny streams went by in belt of trees; 
And here and there the tassell'd tawny 

brave 
Swept by on horse, look'd back, stretch'd 

forth and gave 
A yell of hell, and then did wheel and 

rein 
Awhile, and point away, dark-brow'd and 

grave, 
Into the far and dim and distant plain 
With signs and prophecies, and then 

plunged on again. 

Some hills at last began, to lift and break; 
Some streams began to fail of wood and 
tide, 



The somber plain began betime to take 
A hue of weary brown, and wild and wide 
It stretch'd its naked breast on every side. 
A babe was heard at last to cry for bread 
Amid the deserts; cattle low'd and died. 
And dying men went by with broken tread. 
And left a long black serpent line of wreck 
and dead. 

Strange hunger'd birds, black- wing'd and 

still as death. 
And crowu'd of red with hooked beaks, 

blew low 
And close about, till we could touch their 

breath — 
Strange unnamed birds, that seem'd to 

come and go 
In circles now, and now direct and slow, 
Continual, yet never touch the earth; 
Slim foxes shied and shuttled to and fro 
At times across the dusty weary dearth 
Of life, look'd back, then sank like crickets 

in a hearth. 

Then dust arose, a long dim line like 

smoke 
From out of riven earth. The wheels 

went groaning by. 
The thousand feet in harness and in yoke. 
They tore the ways of ashen alkali, 
And desert winds blew sudden, swift and 

dry. 
The dust! it sat upon and fiU'd the train! 
It seem'd to fret and fill the very sky. 
Lo! dust upon the beasts, the tent, the 

plain, 
And dust, alas! on breasts that rose not 

up again. 

They sat in desolation and in dust 

By dried-up desert streams; the mother's 

hands 
Hid all her bended face; the cattle thrust 
Their tongues and faintly call'd across the 

lands. 



PICTURES. 



169 



The babes, that knew not -what the way 
through sauds 

Could mean, did ask if it would end to- 
day 

The panting wolves slid by, red-eyed, in 
bands 

To pools beyond. The men look'd far 
away. 

And silent deemed that all a boundless 
desert lay. 

They rose by night; they struggled on 
and on 

As thin and still as ghosts; then here and 
there 

Beside the dusty way before the dawn. 

Men silent laid them down in their de- 
spair. 

And died. But woman! Woman, frail as 
fair! 

May man have strength to give to you 
your due; 

You falter'd not, nor murmur'd any- 
where. 

You held your babes, held to your course, 
and you 

Bore on through burning hell your double 
burdens through. 

Men stood at last, the decimated few. 
Above a land of running streams, and 

they? 
They push'd aside the boughs, and peer- 
ing through 
Beheld afar the cool, refreshing bay; 
Then some did curse, and some bend 

hands to pray; 
But some look'd back upon the desert, 

wide 
And desolate with death, then all the 

day 
They mourned. But one, with nothing 

left beside 
His dog to love, crept down among the 

ferns and died. 



THE HEROES OF MY WEST. 

I stand upon the green Sierra's wall; 
Toward the east, beyond the yellow grass, 
I see the broken hill-tops lift and fall, 
Then sands that shimmer like a sea of 

glass 

There lies the nation's great high road of 

dead. 
Forgotten aye, unnumber'd, and, alas ! 
Unchronicled in deed or death; instead. 
The new aristocrat lifts high a lordly 

head. 

My brave and unremember'd heroes, 

rest; 
You fell in silence, silent lie and sleep. 
Sleep on unsung, for this, I say, were 

best: 
The world to-day has hardly time to 

weep; 
The world to-day will hardly care to 

keep 
In heart her plain and unpretending 

brave. 
The desert winds, they whistle by and 

sweep 
About you; brown'd and russet grasses 

wave 
Along a thousand leagues that lie one 

common grave. 

The proud and careless pass in palace 

car 
Along the line you blazon'd white with 

bones; 
Pass swift to people, and possess and 

mar 
Your lands with monuments and letter'd 

stones 
Unto themselves. Thank God! this waste 

disowns 
Their touch. His everlasting hand has 

drawn 
A shining line around you. Wealth be- 
moans 



170 



PICTURES. 



The waste your splendid grave employs. 

Sleep ou, 
No hand shall touch your dust this side 

of God and dawn. 

I let them stride across with grasping 

hands 
And strive for brief possession; mark and 

line 
With lifted walls the new divided lands, 
And gather growing herds of lowing kine. 
I could not covet these, could not confine 
My heart to one; all seem'd to me the 

same. 
And all below my mountain home, divine 
And beautiful, held in another's name, 
As if the herds and lands were mine. 
All mine or his, all beautiful the same. 

I have not been, shall not be, under- 
stood; 

I have not wit, nor will, to well explain. 

But that which men call good I find not 
good. 

The lands the savage held, shall hold again. 

The gold the savage sjDurn'd in proud dis- 
dain 

For centuries; go, take them all; build 
high 

Your gilded temples; strive and strike and 
strain 

And crowd and controvert and curse and 
lie 

In church and State, in town and citadel, 
and. . . .die. 

And who shall grow the nobler from it 

all? 
The mute and unsung savage loved as 

true, — 
He felt, as grateful felt, God's blessings 

fall 
About his lodge and tawny babes as you 
In temples, — Moslem, Christian, infidel, or 

Jew. 



The sea, the great white, braided, 

bounding sea, 
Is laughing in your face; the arching blue 
Eemains to God; the mountains still are 

free, 
A refuge for the few remaining tribes and 

me. 

Your cities! from the first the hand of 

God 
Has been against them; sword and flood 

and flame, 
The earthquake's march, and pestilence, 

have trod 
To ixndiscerning dust the very name 
Of antique capitals; and still the same 
Sad destiny besets the battlefields 
Of Mammon and the harlot's house of 

shame. 
Lo! man with monuments and lifted 

shields 
Against his city's fate. A flame! his city 

yields. 



ENGLAND. 

Thou, mother of brave men, of nations! 
Thou, 

The white-brow'd Queen of bold white- 
bearded Sea! 

Thou wert of old ever the same as now, 

So strong, so weak, so tame, so fierce, so 
bound, so free, 

A contradiction and a mystery; 

Serene, yet passionate, in ways thine own. 

Thy brave ships wind and weave earth's 
destiny. 

The zones of earth, aye, thou hast set and 
sown 

All seas in bed of blossom'd sail, as some 
great garden blown. 

London. 
Above yon inland populace the skies 
Are pink and mellow'd soft in rosy light. 



PICTURES. 



171 



The crown of earth! A halo seems to rise 
And hang perpetual above by night, 
And dash by day the heavens, till the 

sight 
Betrays the city's presence to the wave. . . 
You hear a hollow sound as of the might 
Of seas; you see the march of fair and 

brave 
In millions; moving, moving, moving 

toward — a grave. 

St. Paul's. 

I see above a crowded world a cross 
Of gold. It grows like some great cedar 

tree 
Upon a peak in shroud of cloud and moss, 
Made bare and bronzed in far antiquity. 
Stupendous pile! The grim Yosemite 
Has rent apart his granite wall, and thrown 
Its rugged front before us ... . Here I see 
The strides of giant men in cryptic stone, 
And turn, and slow descend where sleep 
the great alone. 

The mighty captains have come home 
to rest; 
The brave return'd to sleep amid the brave. 
The sentinel that stood with steely breast 
Before the fiery hosts of France, and gave 
The battle-cry that roll'd, receding wave 
On wave, the foeman flying back and far, 
Is here. How still! Yet louder now the 

grave 
Than ever-crashing Belgian battle-car 
Or blue and battle-shaken seas of Tra- 
falgar. 

The verger stalks in stiff importance o'er 
The hollow, deep, and strange responding 

stones; 
He stands with lifted staff uuchid before 
The forms that once had crush'd or 

fashion'd thrones, 
And coldly points you out the coffin'd 

bones: 



He stands composed where armies could 

not stand 

A little time before The hand disowns 

The idle sword, and now instead the grand 
And golden cross makes sign and takes 

austere command. 

Westminster Abbey. 

The Abbey broods beside the turbid 

Thames; 
Her mother heart is filled with memories; 
Her every niche is stored with storied 

names; 
They move before me like a mist of seas. 
I am confused, and made abash'd by these 
Most kingly souls, grand, silent, and 

severe. 
I am not equal, I should sore displease 
The living dead. I dare not enter; 

drear 
And stain'd in storms of grander days all 

things appear. 

I go! but shall I not return again 
When art has taught me gentler, kindlier 

skill. 
And time has given force and strength of 

strain ? 
I go! O ye that dignify and fill 
The chronicles of earth! I would instil 
Into my soul somehow the atmosphere 
Of sanctity that here usurps the will; 
But go; I seek the tomb of one — a peer 
Of peers — whose dust a fool refused to 

cherish here. 

At Lord Byron's Tomb. 

O Master, here I bow before a shrine; 
Before the lordliest dust that ever yet 
Moved animate in human form divine. 
Lo! dust indeed to dust. The mold is 

set 
Above thee and the ancient walls are wet. 
And drip all day in dank and silent gloom, 
As if the cold gray stones could not forget 



172 



PICTURES. 



Thy great estate shrunk to this somber 

room, 
But lean to weep perpetual tears above 

thy tomb. 

Before me lie the oak-crown'd Annesley 
hills, 
Before me lifts the ancient Annesley Hall 
Above the mossy oaks .... A picture fills 
With forms of other days. A maiden 

tall 
And fair; a fiery restless boy, with all 
The force of man! a steed that frets with- 
out; 
A long thin sword that rusts upon the 

wall. . . . 
The generations pass. . . . Behold! about 
The ivied hall the fair-hair'd children 
sport and shout. 

A bay wreath, wound by Ina of the 

West, 
Hangs damp and stain'd upon the dark 

gray wall, 
Above thy time soil'd tomb and tatter'd 

crest; 
A bay wreath gather'd by the seas that 

call 
To orient Cathay, that break and fall 
On shell-lined shores before Tahiti's 

breeze. 
A slab, a crest, a wreath, andithese are 

all 
Neglected, tatter'd, torn; yet only these 
The world bestows for song that rivall'd 

singing seas. 

A bay- wreath wound by one more truly 
brave 
Than Shastan; fair as thy eternal fame, 
She sat and wove above the sunset wave. 



And wound and sang thy measures and 

thy name. 
'Twas wound by one, yet sent with one 

acclaim 
By many, fair and warm as flowing wine, 
And purely true, and tall as growing 

flame. 
That list and lean in moonlight's mellow 

shine 
To tropic tales of love in other tongues 

than thine. 



I bring this idle reflex of thy task, 
And my few loves, to thy forgotten tomb; 
I leave them here; and here all pardon ask 
Of thee, and patience ask of singers whom 
Thy majesty hath silenced. I resume 
My staff", and now my face is to the West; 
My feet are worn; the sun is gone, a gloom 
Has mantled Hucknall, and the minstrel's 

zest 
For fame is broken here, and here he pleads 

for rest. 



TO BEST AT LAST.* 

What wonder that I swore a prophet's 

oath 
Of after days I push'd the boughs 

apart, 
I stood, look'd forth, and then look'd back, 

all loath 
To leave my shadow'd wood. I gather'd 

heart 
From very f earf nines s; with sudden start 
I plunged in the arena; stood a wild 

Uncertain thing, all artless, all in art 

The brave approved, the fair lean'd fair and 

smiled, — 



* These final verses are peculiarly descriptive of the home I have built here on the Hights for my declining 
years; although written and published in London— Songs of the Sunlands— in 1873. True, my strong love 
of a home of my own, woods, and " a careless ordered garden " led me to settle down in other lands more than 



PICTURES. 



173 



The lions touch with velvet-touch a timid 
child. 

But now enough of men. Enough, brief 

day 
Of tamer life. The court, the castle gate 
That open'd wide along the pleasant way. 
The gracious converse of the kingly great 
Had made another glad and well elate 
With hope. A world of thanks; but lam 

grown 

Aweary I am not of this estate; 

The poor, the plain brave border-men 

alone 
Were my first love, and these I will not 

now disown. 

I know a grassy slope above the sea. 
The utmost limit of the westmost land. 
In savage, gnarl'd, and antique majesty 
The great trees belt about the place, and 

stand 
In guard, with mailed limb and lifted 

hand. 
Against the cold approaching civic pride. 
The foamy brooklets seaward leap; the 

bland 
Still air is fresh with touch of wood and 

tide, 
And peace, eternal peace, possesses wild 

and wide. 

Here I return, here I abide and rest; 

Some flocks and herds shall feed along the 
stream; 

Some corn and climbing vines shall make 
us blest 

With bread and luscious fruit The sun- 
ny dream 

Of wampum men in moccasins that seem 

To come and go in silence, girt in shell. 



Before a sun-clad cabin-door, I deem 
The harbinger of peace. Hope weaves her 

spell 
Again about the wearied heart, and all is 

well. 

Here I shall sit in sunlit life's decline 
Beneath my vine and somber verdant 

tree. 
Some tawny maids in other tongues than 

mine 
Shall minister. Some memories shall be 
Before me. I shall sit and I shall see. 
That last vast day that dawn shall rein- 
spire. 
The sun fall down upon the farther sea, 
Fall wearied down to rest, and so retire, 
A splendid sinking isle of far-off fading 
fire. 



BEFORE COKTEZ CAME! 

But see! The day-king hurls a dart 
At darkness, and his cold black heart 
Is pierced; and now, compell'd to flee. 
Flies bleeding to the hoUow'd sea. 
And now, behold, she radiant stands. 
And lifts her round brown jewell'd hands 
Unto the broad, unfolding sun. 
And hails him Tonatiu and King 
With hallow"d mien and holy prayer. 
Her fingers o'er some symbols run, 
Her knees are bow'd in worshipping 
Her God, beheld when thine is not. 
In form of faith long, long forgot. 

Again she lifts her brown arms bare, 
Far flashing in their bands of gold 
And precious stones, rare, rich, and old. 
Was ever mortal half so fair? 



once and in places widely different from this which I had fancied and pictured long, long ago, but I was never 
well or at all content in any place till now. Even the people about me, unworldly, dreamful, silent and of 
other lands and tongues are, like my home, the same I had pictured more than a quarter of a century ago, and 
I joy in this, that I have been thus true to myself. The only departure from my dear first plan is in finding my 
ideal home by the glorious gate of San Francisco instead of the somber fir set sea bank far to the north, ■'Where 
Kolls the Oregon." 



^74 



PICTURES. 



Was ever such a wealth of hair? 
Was ever such a plaintive air? 
Was ever such a sweet despair? 

Still humbler now her form she bends; 
Still higher now the flame ascends: 
She bares her bosom to the sun. 
Again her jewell'd fingers run 
In signs and sacred form and prayer. 
She bows with awe and holy air 
In lowly worship to the sun; 
Then rising calls her lover's name, 
And leaps into the leaping flame. 

I do not hear the faintest moan, 
Or sound, or syllable, or tone. 
The red flames stoop a moment down, 
As if to raise her from the ground; 
They whirl, they swirl, they sweep around 
With lightning feet and fiery crown; 
Then stand up, tall, tip-toed, as one 
Would hand a soul up to the sun. 



IN THE SIERRAS. 

" No, not so lonely now — I love 
A forest maiden: she is mine 
And on Sierras' slopes of pine, 
The vines below, the snows above, 
A solitary lodge is set 
Within a fringe of water'd firs; 
And there my wigwam fires burn, 
Fed by a round brown patient hand. 
That small brown faithful hand of hers 
That never rests till my return. 
The yellow smoke is rising yet; 
Tiptoe, and see it where you stand 
Lift like a column from the land. 

" There are no sea-gems in her hair, 
No jewels fret her dimpled hands. 
And half her bronzen limbs are bare. 
Her round brown arms have golden bands. 
Broad, rich, and by her cunning hands 



Cut from the yellow virgin ore. 

And she does not desire more. 

I wear the beaded wampum belt 

That she has wove — the sable pelt 

That she has fringed red threads around; 

And in the morn, when men are not, 

I wake the valley with the shot 

That brings the brown deer to the ground. 

And she beside the lodge at noon 

Sings with the wind, while baby swings 

In sea-shell cradle by the bough — 

Sings low, so like the clover sings 

With swarm of bees; I hear her now, 

I see her sad face through the moon 

Such songs! — would earth had more of 

siich! 
She has not much to say, and she 
Lifts never voice to question me 
In aught I do . . . .and that is much. 
I love her for her patient trust. 
And my love's forty-fold return — 
A value I have not to learn 
As you at least, as many must 

" She is not over tall or fair; 

Her breasts are curtain'd by her hair. 
And sometimes, through the silken fringe, 
I see her bosom's wealth, like wine 
Burst through in luscious ruddy tinge — 
And all its wealth and worth are mine. 
I know not that one drop of blood 
Of prince or chief is in her veins: 
I simply say that she is good. 
And loves me with pure womanhood. 
.... When that is said, why, what re- 
mains? " 
Mount Shasta, 1872. 



PROPHECY. 

When spires shall shine on the Ama- 
zon's shore. 
From temjDles of God, and time shall have 
roll'd 



PICTURES. 



^75 



Like a scroll from the border the limitless 


The prophet should lead us, —and lifting 


wold; 


a hand 


When the tiger is tamed, aud the mono no 


To the world on the way, like a white 


more 


guiding star. 


Swings over the waters to chatter aud call 


Point out and allure to the fair and un- 


To the crocodile sleeping in rushes aud 


known, 


fern; 


And the far, and the hidden delights of a 


When cities shall gleam, and their battle- 


land. 


ments burn 




In the sunsets of gold, where the cocoa- 


Behold my Sierras! there singers shall 


nuts fall, 


throng; 


'Twill be something to lean from the 


Their white brows shall break through the 


stars and to know 


wings of the uight 


That the engine, red-mouthing with tur- 


As the fierce condor breaks through the 


bulent tongue. 


clouds in his flight; 


The white ships that come, and the cargoes 


And I here plant the cross and possess 


that go. 


them with song. 


We invoked them of old when the nations 




were young: 
'Twill be something to know that we 




QUESTION? 


named them of old,— 




That we said to the nations, Lo! here is 


In the days when my mother, the Earth, 


the fleece 


was young. 


That allures to the rest, and the perfectest 


And you all were not, nor the likeness of 


peace. 


you, 


With its foldings of sunlight shed mellow 


She walk'd in her maidenly prime 


like gold: 


among 




The moonlit stars in the boundless 


That we were the Carsons in kingdoms 


blue. 


untrod. 




And foUow'd the trail through the rustle of 


Then the great sun lifted his shining 


leaves. 


shield. 


And stood by the wave where solitude 


Aud he flash'd his sword as the soldiers 


weaves 


do. 


Her garments of mosses and lonely as 


And he moved like a king full over the 


God: 


field, 




And he look'd, and he loved lier brave and 


That we did make venture when singers 


true. 


were yoiiug, 




Inviting from Europe, from long-trodden 


And looking afar from the ultimate 


lauds 


rim, 


That are easy of journeys, and holy from 


As he lay at rest in a reach of light, 


hands 


He beheld her walking uloue at night, 


Laid upon by the Masters when giants had 


When the buttercup stars in their beauty 


tongue: 


swim. 



176 



PICTURES. 



So he rose up flush'd in his love, and 

he ran, 
And he reach'd his arms, and around her 

waist 
He wound them strong like a love-struck 

man, 
And he kiss'd and embraced her, brave 

and chaste. 

So he nursed his love like a babe at its 

birth, 
And he warm'd in his love as the long 

years ran, 
Then embraced her again, and sweet 

mother Earth 
Was a mother indeed, and her child was 

man. 

The sun is the sire, the mother is earth! 
What more do you know ? what more do 

I need? 
The one he begot, and the one gave birth. 
And I love them both, and let laugh at 
your creed. 

And who shall say I am all unwise 
In my great, warm faith ? Time answers 

us not: 
The qviick fool questions; but who re- 
plies? 
The wise man hesitates, hushed in 
thought. 



THOMAS OF TIGKE.* 

King of Tigre, .comrade true 
Where in all thine isles art thou ? 
Sailing on Fonseca blue? 
Nearing Amapala now ? 
King of Tigre, where art thou ? 

Battling for Antilles' queen ? 
Saber hilt, or olive bough ? 
Crown of dust, or laurel green? 
Roving love, or marriage vow? 
King and comrade, where art thou ? 

Sailing on Pacific seas? 
Pitching tent in Pimo now? 
Underneath magnolia trees? 
Thatch of palm, or [cedar bough? 
Soldier singer, where art thou ? 

Coasting on the Oregon? 
Saddle bow, or birchen prow? 
Eound the Isles of Amazon? 
Pampas, plain, or mountain brow? 
Prince of rovers, where art thou ? 



I 



MKS. FRANK LESLIE. 

I dream'd, O Queen, of thee, last night; 
I can but dream of thee to-day. 
But dream? Oh! I could kneel and pray 
To one, who, like a tender light. 



* This was a brave old boyhood frieud in the Mount Shasta Days. You will find him there as the Prince 
in my "Life Among the Modocs," " Unwritten Hist®ry, Paquita," "My Life Among the Indians," "My Own 
Story," or whatever other name enterprising or piratical publishers, Europe or America, may have chosen to give 
the one prose book Mulford and I put out in London during the Modoc war. This man. Prince 
Thomas, now of Leon, Nicaragua, was a great favorite and my best friend, in one sense for years in Europe. 
He had passed the most adventurous life conceivable, at one time having been king of an island. He gloried in 
the story of his wild life, spent money like a real prince, and was the envy and admiration of fashionable club 
men. 

"Where in all the world, and when, did he get so much money?" once asked the president of the Savage 
Club. 

"Well, I am not certain whether it was as a pirate of the South Seas or merely as a brigand of Mexico," I 
answered. 

This answer coming to the ears of Thomas, he so far from being angered was greatly pleased and laughed 
heartily over it with some friends at Lof d Houghton's table. 



PICTURES. 



177 



Leads ever on my lonesome way, 
And will not pass— yet will not stay. 

1 dream'd we roam'd in elden land; 
I saw you walk in splendid state, 
With lifted head and heart elate, 
And lilies in your white right hand, 
Beneath your proud Saint Peter's dome 
That, silent, lords almighty Kome. 

A diamond star was in your hair. 
Your garments were of gold and snow; 
And men did ti^rn and marvel so. 
And men did say. How matchless fair! 
And all men follow'd as you pass'd; 
But I came silent, lone, and last. 

And holy men in sable gown. 
And girt with cord, and sandal shod, 
Did look to thee, and then to God. 
They cross'd themselves, with heads held 

down; 
They chid themselves, for fear that they 
Should, seeing thee, forget to pray. 

Men pass'd, men spake in wooing word; 
Men pass'd, ten thousand in a line. 
You stood before the sacred shrine, 
You stood as if you had not heard. 
And then you turn'd in calm command, 
And laid two lilies in my hand. 

O Lady, if by sea or land 
You yet might weary of all men, 
And turn unto your singer then, 
And lay one lily in his hand, 
Lo! I would follow true and far 
As seamen track the polar star. 

My soul is young, my heart is strong; 
Lady, reach a hand to-day, 
And thou shalt walk the milky way, 
For I will give thy name to song. 
Yea, I am of the kings of thought, 
And thou shalt live when kings are not. 



THE POET. 

Yes, I am a dreamer. Yet while yoii 

dream, 
Then 1 am awake. When a child, back 

through 
The gates of the past I peer'd, and I knew 
The land I had lived in. I saw a broad 

stream, 
Saw rainbows that compass'd a world in 

their reach; 
I saw my beloved go down on the beach; 
Saw her lean to this earth, saw her looking 

for me 
As shipmen look for loved ship at sea. . . . 
While you seek gold in the earth, why, I 
See gold in the steeps of the starry sky; 
And which do you think has the fairer 

view 
Of God in heaven — the dreamer or you ? 



DYSPEPTIC. 

I am as lone as lost winds on some 
height; 
As lone as yonder leaning moon at night, 
That climbs, like some sad, noiseless- 
footed nun, 
Far lip against the steep and starry height, 
As if on holy mission. Yea, as one 
That knows no ark, or isle, or resting- 
place. 
Or chronicle of time, or wheeling sun, 
I drive forever on through endless space. 
Like some lone bird in everlasting flight. 
My lonesome soul sails on through seas of 
night. 

Alone in sounding hollows of the sea; 
Alone on lifted, heaving hills of foam! 
To never rest; to ever rise and roam 
Where never kind or kindred soul may 

be; 
To roam where ships of commerce never 

ride, 
Sail on, and so forget the rest of shore; 



178 



PICTURES. 



To hear the waves complain, as if they 
died; 

To see the vast waves heave for ever- 
more; 

To know that no ships cross or measure 
these, 

My shoreless, strange, and most uncom- 
mon seas. 

Oh! who art thou, veil'd shape? My 

soul cries out 
Through mist and storm. Lean thou to 

me! 
Come nearer, thou, that I may feel and 

see 
Thy wounded side, and so forget all 

doubt! 
How terrible the night! I kneel to thee; 
I clasp thy knees: would clamber to thy 

hair. 
As one shipwreck'd on some broad, broken 

sea 
Through intermingled oaths and awful 

shout, 
Uplifts white hands and prays in his de- 
spair, — 
So now my curses break into a prayer. 

The long days through I sit and sigh, 

alas! 
For love! Lone, beggar-like, beside the 

way 
I sit forlorn in lanes where Day must 

pass. 
I stretch imploring palms toward the 

Day, 
And cry, "O Day! but give me love! I 

die 
For love! I let all other gifts go by. 
Yea, bring me but one love that runs to 

waste, 
One love that men pass by in heedless 

haste. 
And I will kiss thy feet and ask no more 
From all To-morrow's rich, mysterious 

store." 



The drear days mock me in my mute re- 
quest; 
The dark years roll like breakers on the 

shore, 
And die in futile thunder. As in jest. 
They bring bright, empty shells,— bring 

nothing more. 
Oh, say! is sweet Love dead and hid from 

all 
Who would disdain a colder touch than 

his? 
Then show me where Love lies. Put back 

the pall. 
Lo! I will fall upon his face and kiss 
Sweet Love to life again; or I will lie, 
Lamenting, prone beside his dust, and 

die. 

Behold! my love has brought biit rue and 

rime! 
I loved the blushing, bounding, singing 

Spring: 
She scarce would pause a day to hear me 

sing. 
I loved her sister, golden Summer-time: 
She gather'd close her robes and rustled 

past, 
Through yellow fields of corn. She 

scorn'd to cast 
One tender look of love or hope behind; 
But, sighing, died upon the Autumn wind. 
Oh, then I loved the vast, the lonesome 

Night! 
She, too, pass'd on, and perish'd from my 

sight. 

Say ! lives there naught on all the girdled 

world, 
That may survive one day its sorry 

birth? 
The very Moon grows thin and hunger- 

curl'd; 
The ardent Sun forgets his love of Earth, 
And turns, dark-brow'd, and draws his 

reach'd arms back. 



PICTURES. 



179 



The while she, mourniug, moves ou clad 

in black. 
But list! I once did hear the good priest 

tell 
That hell is everlasting. Oh, my friend, 
To think that there is aught that will not 

end! 
Now let us kneel and give God thanks that 

hell is hell. 



VALE! AMERICA.* 
Let me rise and go forth. A far, dim 

spark 
Illumes my pcth. The light of my day 
Hath fled, and yet am I far away. 
The bright, bent moon has dipp'd her horn 
In the darkling sea. High up in the dark 
The wrinkled old lion, he looks away 
To the east, and impatient as if for 

morn .... 
I have gone the girdle of earth, and say. 
What have I gain'd but a temple gray. 
Two crow's feet, and a heart forlorn? 

A star starts yonder like a soul afraid! 
It falls like a thought through the great 

profound. 
Fearfully swift and with never a sound, 
It fades into nothing, as all things fade; 
Yea, as all things fail. And where is the 

leaven 
In the pride of a name or a proud man's 

nod? 
Oh, tiresome, tiresome stairs to heaven! 
Weary, oh, wearisome ways to God! 
'Twere better to sit with the chin on the 

palm. 
Slow tapping the sand, come storm, come 

calm. 



I have lived from within and not from 

without; 
I have drunk from a fount, have fed from 

a hand 
That no man knows who lives upon land; 
And yet my soul it is crying out. 
I care not a pin for the praise of men; 
But I hunger for love. I starve, I die, 
Each day of my life. Ye pass me by 
Each day, and laugh as ye pass; and 

when 
Ye come, I start in my place as ye come. 
And lean, and would speak, — but my lips 

are dumb. 

Yon sliding stars and the changeful 

moon .... 
Let me rest on the plains of Lombardy for 

aye. 
Or sit down by this Adrian Sea and die. 
The days that do seem as some afternoon 
They all are here. I am strong and true 
To myself; can pluck and could plant 

anew 
My heart, and grow tall; could come to be 
Another being; lift bolder hand 
And conquer. Yet ever will come to me 
The thought that Italia is not my land. 

Could I but return to my woods once 

more. 
And dwell in their depths as I have dwelt. 
Kneel in their mosses as I have knelt. 
Sit where the cool white rivers run, 
Away from the world and half hid from 

the sun. 
Hear winds in the wood of my storm-torn 

shore, 
To tread where only the red man trod. 
To say no word, but listen to God! 
Glad to the heart with listening, — 



* I do not like this bit of impatience, nor do I expect any one else to like it and only preserve it here as a sort 
of landmark or journal in my journey through life. It is only an example of almost an entire book, written 
in Italy. I had, after a long struggle with myself, settled down in Italy to remain, as I believed, and as you 
can see was very miserable, and wrote accordingly. 



i8o 



PICTURES. 



It seems to me that I then could sing, 
And sing as never sung man before. 

But deep-tangled woodland and -wild 
waterfall, 

farewell for aye, till the Judgment Day! 

1 shall see you no more, O land of mine, 
O half-aware land, like a child at play! 

O voiceless and vast as the push'd-back 

skies! 
No more, blue seas in the blest sunshine, 
No more, black woods where the white 

peaks rise. 
No more, bleak plains where the high 

winds fall, 
Or the red man keeps or the shrill birds 

call! 

I must find diversion with another kind: 
There are roads on the land and roads on 

the sea; 
Take ship and sail, and sail till I find 
The love that I soi;ght from eternity; 
Kun away from oneself, take ship and sail 
The middle white seas; see turban 'd 

men, — 
Throw thought to the dogs for aye. And 

when 
All seas are travel'd and all scenes fail. 
Why, then this doubtful, cursed gift of 

verse 
May save me from death — or something 

worse. 

My hand it is weary, and my harp un- 
strung; 

And where is the good that I pipe or sing. 

Fashion new notes, or shape any thing? 

The songs of my rivers remain unsung 

Henceforward for me But a man shall 

arise 

From the far, vast valleys of the Occi- 
dent, 

With hand on a harp of gold, and with 
eyes 

That lift with glory and a proud intent; 



Yet so gentle indeed, that his sad heart- 
strings 

Shall thrill to the heart of your heart as 
he sings. 

Let the wind sing songs in the lake-side 
reeds, 
Lo, I shall be less than the indolent 

wind! 
Why shoiild I sow, when I reap and bind 
And gather in nothing but the thistle 

weeds? 
It is best I abide, let what will befall; 
To rest if I can, let time roll by: 
Let others endeavor to learn, while I, 
With naught to conceal, with much to re- 
gret. 
Shall sit and endeavor, alone, to forget. 

Shall I shape pipes from these seaside 

reeds, 
And play for the children, that shout and 

call? 
Lo! men they have mock'd me the whole 

year through! 
I shall sing no more ... I shall find in old 

creeds, 
And in quaint old tongues, a world that is 

new; 
And these, I will gather the sweets of 

them all. 
And the old-time doctrines and the old- 
time signs, 
I will taste of them all, as tasting old 

wines. 

I will tind new thought, as a new-found 

vein 
Of rock-lock'd gold in my far, fair West. 
I will rest and forget, will entreat to be 

blest; 
Take up new thought and again grow 

young; 
Yea, take a new world as one born again, 
And never hear more mine own mother 

tongue; 



PICTURES. 



Jbl 



Nor miss it. Why sliould I ? I never once 

heard, 
In my land's language, love's one sweet 

word. 



Did I court fame, or the favor of 

man? 
Make war upon creed, or strike hand with 

clan? 
I sang my songs of the sounding 

trees,. 
As careless of name or of fame as the 

sea; 
And these I sang for the love of these. 
And the sad sweet solace they brought to 

me. 
I but sang for myself, touch'd here, touch'd 

there, 
As a strong-wing'd bird that flies any- 
where. 



.... How I do wander! And yet why 

not? 
I once had a song, told a tale in rhyme; 
Wrote books, indeed, in my proud young 

prime; 
I aim'd at the heart like a musket 

ball; 
I struck cursed folly like a cannon 

shot, — 
And where is the glory or good of it 

all? 
Yet these did I write for my land, but 

this 
I write for myself, — and it is as it is. 



Tea, storms have blown counter and 
shaken me. 

And yet was I fashion'd for strife, and 
strong 

And daring of heart, and born to en- 
dure; 

My soul sprang upward, my feet felt 
sure; 



My faith was as wide as a wide-bough'd 

tree. 
But there be limits; and a sense of 

wrong 
Forever before you will make you less 
A man, than a man at first woiild guess. 

Good men can forgive — and, they say, 

forget .... 
Far less of the angel than Indian was 

set 
In my fierce nature. And I look 

away 
To a laud that is dearer than this, and 

say, 
" I shall remember, though yoii may for- 
get. 
Yea, I shall remember for aye and a 

day 
The keen taunts thrown in a boy face, 

when 
He cried unto God for the love of men." 

Enough, ay and more than enough, of 

this! 
I know that the sunshine must follow the 

rain; 
And if this be the winter, why spring 

again 
Must come in its season, full blossom'd 

with bliss. 
I will lean to the storm, though the winds 

blow strong. . . . 
Yea, the winds they tiave blown and have 

shaken me — 
As the winds blow songs through a shat- 
tered tree. 
They have blown this broken and careless 

set song. 

They have sung this song, be it never 
bad; 
Have blown upon me and play'd upon 
me, 



I«2 



PICTURES. 



Have broken the notes, — blown sad, blown 

glad; 
Just as the winds blow fierce and free 
A barren, a blighted, and a cursed fig 

tree . 
And if I grow careless and heed no 

whit 
Whether it please or what conies of it, 
Wh}', talk to the winds, then, and not to 

me. 
Venice, 1874. 



THE QUEST OF LOVE.* 

The quest of love? 'Tis the quest of 

troubles; 
'Tis the wind through the woods of the 

Oregon. 
Sit down, sit down, for the world goes 

on 
Precisely the same; and the rainbow bub- 
bles 
Of love, they gather, or break, or 

blow, 
Whether you bother your brain or 

no; 
And for all your troubles and all your 

tears, 
'Twere just the same in a hundred years. 



By the populous land, or the lonesome 

sea, 
Lo! these were the gifts of the gods to 

men, — 
Three miserable gifts, and only three: 
To love, to forget, and to die — and 

then? 
To love in peril, and bitter-sweet pain, 
And then, forgotten, lie down and 

die: 
One moment of sun, whole seasons of 

rain. 



Then night is roll'd to the door of the 
sky. 

To love? To sit at her feet and to 

weep; 
To climb to her face, hide your face in 

her hair; 
To nestle you there like a babe in its 

sleep. 
And, too, like a babe, to believe — it stings 

there! 
To love! 'Tis to suffer, " Lie close to my 

breast. 
Like a fair ship iu haven, O darling!" I 

cried . 
"Your round arms outreaching to heaven 

for rest 
Make signal to death.". .. .Death came, 

and love died. 
To forget? To forget, mount horse and 

clutch sword; 
Take ship and make sail to the ice-prison'd 

seas, 
Write books and preach lies; range lands; 

or go hoard 
A grave full of gold, and buy wines — and 

drink lees: 
Then die; and die cursing, and call it a 

prayer! 
Is earth but a top — a boy-god's delight, 
To be spun for his pleasure, while man's 

despair 
Breaks out like a wail of the damn'd 

through the night? 

Sit down in the darkness and weep with 

me 
On the edge of the world. Lo, love lies 

dead! 
And the earth and the sky, and the sky 

and the sea. 
Seem shutting together as a book that is 

read. 



* Fragment from a long poem done in Italy. 



PICTURES. 



183 



let what have we learn'd? We laugh'd 

with delight 
In the morniug at school, and kept toying 

with all 
Time's silly playthings. Now, wearied 

ere night, 
We must cry for dark-mother, her cradle 

the pall. 



'Twere better blow trumpets 'gainst love, 

keep away 
That traitorous urchin with fire or 

shower, 
Than have him come near you for one little 

hour. 
Take physic, consult with your doctor, as 

you 
Would fight a contagion; carry all 

through 
The populous day some drug that smells 

loud, 
As you pass on your way, or make way 

through the crowd. 
Talk war, or carouse ; only keep off the 

day 
Of his coming, with every hard means in 

yoiir way. 



Blow smoke in the eyes of the world, 

and laugh 
With the broad-chested men, as you loaf 

at your inn. 
As you crowd to your inn from your saddle 

and quaff 
Red wine from a horn; while your dogs 

at your feet, 
¥our slim spotted dogs, like the fawn, and 

as fleet, 
Crouch patiently by and look up at your 

face, 
As they wait for the call of the horn to the 

chase; 
For you shall not suffer, and yoia shall not 

sin. 



Until peace goes out just as love comes 
in. 



Love horses and hounds, meet many 

good men — 
Yea, men are most proper, and keep you 

from care. 
There is strength in a horse. There is 

pride in his will; 
It is sweet to look back as you climb the 

steep hill. 
There is room. You have movement of 

limb; yoi\ have air. 
Have the smell of the wood, of the grasses; 

and then 
What comfort to rest, as you lie thrown 

full length 
All night and alone, with yoiir fists full of 

strength! 
Go away, go away with your bitter-sweet 

pain 
Of love; for love is the story of 

troubles. 
Of troubles and love, that travel to- 
gether 
The round world round. Behold the 

bubbles 
Of love! Then troubles and turbulent 

weather. 
Why, man had all Eden! Then love, then 

Cain! 



AFRICA. 

Oh! she is very old. I lay. 
Made dumb with awe and wonder- 
ment, 
Beneath a palm before my tent. 
With idle and discouraged hands, 
Not many days ago, on sands 
Of awful, silent Africa. 
Long gazing on her ghostly shades, 
That lift their bare arms in the air. 



i84 



PICTURES. 



I lay. I mused -where story fades 
From her dark brow and found her fair. 



A slave, and old, within her veins 
There runs that warm, forbidden blood 
That no man dares to dignify 
In elevated song. The chains 
That held her race but yesterday 
Hold still the hands of men. Forbid 
Is Ethiop. The turbid flood 
Of prejudice lies stagnant still, 
And all the world is tainted. Will 
And wit lie broken as a lance 
Against the brazen mailed face 
Of old opinion. None advance, 
Steel-clad and glad, to the attack. 
With trumpet and with song. Look 

back! 
Beneath yon pyramids lie hid 
The histories of her great race .... 
Old Nilus rolls right sullen by, 
With all his secrets. Who shall say: 
My father rear'd a pyramid; 
My brother cliijp'd the dragon's wings; 
My mother was Semiramis ? 
Yea, harps strike idly out of place; 
Men sing of savage Saxon kings 
New-born and known but yesterday. 
And Norman blood presumes to say 

Nay, ye who boast ancestral name 
And vaunt deeds dignified by time 
Must not despise her. Who hath worn 
Since time began a face that is 
So all-enduring, old like this — 
A face like Africa's ? Behold! 
The Sphinx is Africa. The bond 
Of silence is upon her. Old 
And white with tombs, and rent and 

shorn; 
With raiment wet with tears, and torn. 
And trampled on, yet all untamed; 
All naked now, yet not ashamed, — 
The mistress of the young world's 

prime. 



Whose obelisks still laugh at time, 
And lift to heaven her fair name, 
Sleeps satisfied upon her fame. 

Beyond the Sphinx, and still beyond, 
Beyond the tawny desert-tomb 
Of Time; beyond tradition, loom 
And lifts, ghost-like, from out the gloom, 
Her thousand cities, battle-torn 
And gray with story and with Time. 
Her humblest ruins are sublime; 
Her thrones with mosses overborne 
Make velvets for the feet of Time. 

She points a hand and cries: "Go 

read 
The lettered obelisks that lord 
Old Rome, and know my name and 

deed. 
My archives these, and plunder'd when 
I had grown weary of all men." 
We turn to these; we cry: " Abhorr'd 
Old Sphinx, behold, we cannot read! " 



CEOSSING THE PLAINS. 

What great yoked brutes with briskets 

low. 
With wrinkled necks like buffalo, 
With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes. 
That turn'd so slow and sad to you, 
That shone like love's eyes soft with 

tears. 
That seem'd to plead, and make replies, 
The while they bow'd their necks and 

drew 
The creaking load; and look'd at you. 
Their sable briskets swept the ground. 
Their cloven feet kept solemn sound. 

Two sullen bullocks led the line. 
Their great eyes shining bright like 
wine; 



PICTURES. 



185 



Two sullen captive kings were they, 
That had in time held herds at bay, 
And even now they crnsh'd the sod 
With stolid sense of majesty, 
And stately stepp'd and stately trod, 
As if 'twere something still to be 
Kings even in captivity. 



THE MEN OF FORTY-NINE. 

Those brave old bricks of forty-nine! 
"What lives they lived! what deaths they 

died! 
A thousand canons, darkling wide 
Below Sierra's slopes of pine, 
Eeceive them now. And they who died 
Along the far, dim, desert route — 
Their ghosts are many. Let them keep 
Their vast possessions. The Piute, 
The tawny warrior, -will dispute 
No boundary with these. And I 
Who saw them live, who felt them die. 
Say, let their unplow'd ashes sleep, 
Untouch'd by man, on plain or steep. 



The bearded, sunbrown'd men -who 
bore 
The burden of that frightful year. 
Who toil'd, but did not gather store, 
They shall not be forgotten. Drear 
And white, the plains of Shoshonee 
Shall point us to that farther shore. 
And long, white, shining lines of bones. 
Make needless sign or white mile-stones. 



The wild man's yell, the groaning 

wheel; 
The train that moved like drifting 

barge; 
The dust that rose up like a cloud — 
Like smoke of distant battle! Loud 



The great whips rang like shot, and 

steel 
Of antique fashion, crude and large, 
Flash'd back as in some battle charge. 



They sought, yea, they did find their 
rest. 
Along that long and lonesome way, 
These brave men buffet'd the West 
With lifted faces. Full were they 
Of great endeavor. Brave and true 
As stern Crusader clad in steel. 
They died a-field as it was fit. 
Made strong with hope, they dared to do 
Achievement that a host to-day 
Would stagger at, stand back and reel, 
Defeated at the thought of it. 

What brave endeavor to endure! 
What patient hope, when hope was past! 
What still surrender at the last, 
A thousand leagues from hope! how pure 
They lived, how proud they died! 
How generous with life! The wide 
And gloried age of chivalry 
Hath not one page like this to me. 

Let all these golden days go by. 
In sunny summer weather. I 
But think upon my buried brave. 
And breathe beneath another sky. 
Let Beauty glide in gilded car. 
And find my sundown seas afar, 
Forgetful that 'tis but one grave 
From eastmost to the westmost wave. 



Tea, I remember! The still tears 
That o'er uncoffin'd faces fell! 
The final, silent, sad farewell! 
God! these are with me all the years! 
They shall be with me ever. I 
Shall not forget. I hold a trust. 
They are part of my existence. When 



1 86 



PICTURES. 



Swift down the shining iron track 
You sweep, and fields of corn 

back, 
And herds of lowing steers move by, 
And men laugh loud, in mute mistrust, 
I turn to other days, to men 
Who made a pathway with their dust. 
Naples, 1874. 



fash 



THE HEROES OF AMERICA. 

O perfect heroes of the earth. 
That couquer'd forests, harvest set ! 
O sires, mothers of my West! 
How shall we count your proud bequest ? 
But yesterday ye gave us birth; 
We eat your hard-earn'd bread to-day. 
Nor toil nor spin nor make regret, 
But praise our petty selves and say 
How great we are. We all forget 
The still endurance of the rude 
Unpolish'd sons of solitude. 



What strong, uncommon men were 
these, 
These settlers hewing to the seas! 
Great horny-handed men and tan; 
Men blown from many a barren land 
Beyond the sea; men red of hand. 
And men in love, and men in debt. 
Like David's men in battle set; 
And men whose verj' hearts had died, 
Who only sought these woods to hide 
Their wretchedness, held in the van; 
Yet every man among them stood 
Alone, along that sounding wood, 
And every man somehow a man. 
They push'd the mailed wood aside, 
They toss'd the forest like a toy, 
That grand forgotten race of men — 
The boldest band that yet has been 
Together since the siege of Troy. 

San Francisco, 1871. 



ATTILA'S THRONE: TORCELLO. 

I do recall some sad days spent 
By borders of the Orient, 
'T would make a tale. It matters not. 
I sought the loneliest seas; I sought 
The solitude of ruins, and forgot 
Mine own life and my littleness 
Before this fair land's mute distress. 

Slow sailing through the reedy isles, 
Some sunny summer yesterdays, 
I watched the storied yellow sail. 
And lifted prow of steely mail 
'Tis all that's left Torcello now, — 
A pirate's yellow sail, a prow. 



I touch'd Torcello. Once on land, 
I took a sea-shell in my hand, 
And blew like any trumpeter. 
I felt the fig leaves lift and stir 
On trees that reach from ruin'd wall 
Above my head, — but that was all. 
Back from the farther island shore 
Came echoes trooping — nothing more. 

By cattle paths grass-grown and worn, 
Through marbled streets all stain'd and 

torn 
By time and battle, lone I walk'd. 
A bent old beggar, white as one 
For better fruitage blossoming, 
Came on. And as he came he talk'd 
Unto himself; for there were none 
In all his island, old and dim, 
To answerback or question him. 
I turn'd, retraced my steps once more. 
The hot miasma steam'd and rose 
In deadly vapor from the reeds 
That grew from out the shallow shore, 
Where peasants say the sea-horse feeds. 
And Neptune shapes his horn and blows. 

Yet here stood Adria once, and here 
Attila came with sword and flame. 



PICTURES. 



187 



And set his throue of hollow'd stone 

In her high mart. And it remains 

Still lord o'er all. Where once the tears 

Of mute petition fell, the rains 

Of heaven fall. Lo! all alone 

There lifts this massive empty throne. 

I climb'd and sat that throne of stone 
To contemplate, to dream, to reign — 
Ay, reign above myself; to call 
The people of the ijast again 
Before me as I sat alone 
In all my kingdom. There were kine 
That browsed along the reedy brine, 
And now and then a tvisky boar 
Would shake the high reeds of the 

shore, 
A bird blow by, — but that was all. 



I watch'd the lonesome sea-gull pass. 
I did remember and forget, — 
The past roU'd by; I lived alone. 
I sat the shapely, chisell'd stone 
That stands in tall, sweet grasses set; 
Ay, girdle deep in long, strong grass, 
And green alfalfa. Very fair 
The heavens were, and still and blue. 
For Nature knows no changes there. 
The Alps of Venice, far away. 
Like some half-risen late moon lay. 

How sweet the grasses at my feet! 

The smell of clover over-sweet. 

I heard the hum of bees. The bloom 

Of clover-tops and cherry-trees 

Was being rifled by the bees. 

And these were building in a tomb. 

The fair alfalfa — such as has 

Usiirp'd the Occident, and grows 

With all the sweetness of the rose 

On Sacramento's sundown hills — 

Is there, and that dead Island fills 

With fragrance. Yet the smell of death 

Comes riding in on every breath. 



That sad, sweet fragrance. It had 

sense, 
And sound, and voice. It was a part 
Of that which had possess'd my heart, 
And would not of my will go hence. 
'Twas Autumn's breath; 'twas sad as 

kiss 
Of some sweet worshipp'd woman is. 

Some snails had climb'd the throue and 

writ 
Their silver monograms on it 
In unknown tongues. I sat thereon, 
I dream'd until the day was gone; 
I blew again my pearly shell, — 
Blew long and strong, and loud and 

well; 
I puffd my cheeks, I blew as when 
Horn'd satyrs piped and danced as men. 

Some mouse-brown cows that fed within 

Look'd up. A cowherd rose hard by. 

My single subject, clad in skin. 

Nor yet half -clad. I caught his eye, — 

He stared at me, then turn'd and fled. 

He frighten'd fled, and as he ran, 

Like wild beast from the face of man, 

Back o'er his shoulder threw his head. 

He stopp'd, and then this subject true. 

Mine only one in all the isle, 

Turn'd round, and, with a fawning 

smile. 
Came back and ask'd me for a sou! 



WESTWAKD HO! 

What strength! what strife! what rude 
unrest! 
What shocks! what half-shaped armies 

met! 
A mighty nation moving west. 
With all its steely sinews set 
Against the living forests. Hear 
The shouts, the shots of pioneer, 



PICTURES. 



The reuded forests, rolling wheels, 
As if some half-check'd army reels, 
Eecoils, redoubles, comes again, 
Lond sounding like a hurricane. 

O bearded, stalwart, westmost men, 
So tower-like, so Gothic built! 
A kingdom won without the guilt 
Of studied battle, that hath been 
Tour blood's inheritance. . . .Your heirs 
Know not your tombs: The great plow- 
shares 
Cleave softly through the mellow loam 
Where you have made eternal home. 
And set no sign. Your epitaphs 
Are writ in furrows. Beauty laughs 
While through the green ways wandering 
Beside her love, slow gathering 
White starry-hearted May-time blooms 
Above your lowly level'd tombs; 
And then below the spotted sky 
She stops, she leans, she wonders why 
The ground is heaved and broken so. 
And why the grasses darker grow 
And droop and trail like wounded wing. 

Yea, Time, the grand old harvester, 
Has gather'd you from wood and plain. 
We call to you again, again; 
The rush and rumble of the car 
Comes back in answer. Deep and wide 
The wheels of progress have passed on; 
The silent pioneer is gone. 
His ghost is moving down the trees. 
And now we piish the memories 
Of bluff, bold men who dared and died 
In foremost battle, quite aside. 



VENICE. 
City at sea, thou art surely an ark. 
Sea-blown and a-wreck in the rain and 

dark. 
Where the white sea-caps are so toss'd and 
curl'd. 



Thy sins they were many — and behold the 

flood! 
And here and about us are beasts in 

stud. 
Creatures and beasts that creep and go. 
Enough, ay, and wicked enough I know. 
To populate, or devour, a world. 



O wrinkled old lion, looking down 
With brazen frown upon mine and 

me. 
From tower a-top of your watery town. 
Old king of the desert, once king of the 

sea: 
List! here is a lesson for thee to-day. 
Proud and immovable monarch, I say, 
Lo! here is a lesson to-day for thee. 
Of the things that were and the things 

to be. 



Dank palaces held by the populous 

sea 
For the good dead men, all cover'd with 

shell,— 
We will pay them a visit some day; and 

we. 
We may come to love their old palaces 

well. 
Bah! toppled old columns all tumbled 

across, 
Toss'd in the waters that lift and fall. 
Waving in waves long masses of moss, 
Toppled old columns, — and that will be 

all. 



I know you, lion of gray Saint Mark; 
You flutter'd all seas beneath your wing. 
Now, over the deep, and up in the 

dark. 
High over the girdles of bright gaslight. 
With wings in the air as if for flight. 
And crouching as if about to spring 
From top of your granite of Africa, — 



PICTURES. 



189 



Say, what shall be said of you some 
day? 

What shall be said, O grim Saint Mark, 
Savage old beast so cross'd aud churl'd, 
By the after-men from the under-world? 
What shall be said as they search along 
And sail these seas for some sign or spark 
Of the old dead fires of the dear old days, 
When men and story have gone their 

ways. 
Or even your city and name from song? 

Why, sullen old monarch of still'd Saint 
Mark, 
Strange men of my West, wise-mouth'd 

and strong, 
Will come some day aud, gazing long 
And mute with wonder, will say of thee: 
" This is the Saint! High over the dark, 
Foot on the Bible and great teeth bare. 
Tail whipp'd back and teeth in the air — 
Lo! this is the Saint, and none but he!" 



A HAILSTOEM IN VENICE. 

The hail like cannon-shot struck the 

sea 
Aud ch^^rn'd it white as a creamy foam; 
Then hail like battle-shot struck where we 
Stood looking a-sea from a sea-girt home — 
Came shooting askance as if shot at the 

head; 
Then glass flew shiver'd and men fell 

down 
And pray'd where they fell, and the gray 

old town 
Lay riddled and helpless as if shot dead. 



Then lightning right full in the eyes! 
and then 
Fair women fell down flat on the face. 



Aud pray"d their pitiful Mother with tears, 
And pray'd black death as a hiding-place; 
And good priests pray'd for the sea-bound 

men 
As never good priests had pray'd for 

years .... 
Then God spake thunder! And then the 

rain! 
The great, white, beautiful, high-born 



SANTA MAEIA: TOKCELLO. 

And yet again through the watery miles 
Of reeds I row'd, till the desolate isles 
Of the black-bead makers of Venice were 

not. 
I touch'd where a single sharp tower is 

shot 
To heaven, and torn by thunder and rent 
As if it had been Time's battlement. 
A city lies dead, and this great grave- 
stone 
Stands on its grave like a ghost alone. 

Some cherry-trees grow here, and here 
An old church, simple and severe 
In ancient aspect, stands alone 
Amid the ruin aud decay, all grown 
In moss aud grasses. Old aud quaint. 
With antique cuts of martyr'd saiut. 
The gray church stands with stooping 

knees. 
Defying the decay of seas. 

Her pictured hell, with flames blown 
high. 
In bright mosaics wrought and set 
When man first knew the Nubian art; 
Her bearded saints as black as jet; 
Her quaint Madonna, dim with rain 
And touch of pious lips of paiu. 
So touch'd my lonesome soul, that I 



ipo 



PICTURES. 



Gazed long, theu cume and gazed again, 
And loved, and took her to my heart. 

Nor monk in black, nor Capucin, 
Nor priest of any creed was seen. 
A sunbrown'd woman, old and tall, 
And still as any shadow is. 
Stole forth from out the mossy wall 
With massive keys to show me this: 
Came slowly forth, and, following. 
Three birds — and all with drooping wing. 

Three mute brown babes of hers; and 
they— 
Oh, they were beautiful as sleep. 
Or death, below the troubled deep! 
And on the pouting lips of these, 
Red corals of the silent seas. 
Sweet birds, the everlasting seal 
Of silence that the God has set 
On this dead island sits for aye. 

I would forget, yet not forget 
Their helpless eloquence. They creep 
Somehow into my heart, and keep 
One bleak, cold corner, jewel set. 
They steal my better self away 
To them, as little birds that day 
Stole fruits from out the cherry-trees. 

So helpless and so wholly still. 
So sad, so wrapt in mute surprise. 
That I did love, despite my will. 
One little maid of ten — such eyes, 
So large and lovely, so divine! 
Such pouting lips, such pearly cheek! 
Did lift her perfect eyes to mine. 
Until our souls did touch and speak — 
Stood by me all that perfect day. 
Yet not one sweet word coiald she say. 



She turn'd her melancholy eyes 
So constant to my own, that I 



Forgot the going clouds, the sky; 

Found fellowship, took bread and wine: 

And so her little soul and mine 

Stood very near together there. 

And oh, I found her very fair! 

Yet not one soft word could she say : 

What did she think of all that day? 



CARMEN. 

Not that I deem'd she loved me. Nay, 
I dared not even dream of that. 
I do but say I knew her; say 
She sat in dreams before me, sat 
All still and voiceless as love is — 
But say her soul was warm as wine, 
But say it overflow'd in mine. 
And made itself a part of this. 

The conversation of her eyes 
Was language of the gods. Her breast 
Was their abiding place of rest; 
Her heart their gate to Paradise. 
Her heart, her heart! 'Tis shut, ah me! 
'Tis shut, and I have lost the key. 

The prayer of love breaks to an oath. . . 

No matter if she loved or no, 
God knows I loved enough for both. 
That day of days, so dear, so fond; 
And knew her, as you shall not know 
Till you have known sweet death, and you 
Have cross 'd the dark; gone over to 
The great majority beyond. 



TO THE JERSEY LILY. 

If all God's world a garden were, 
And women were but flowers. 
If men were bees that busied there, 
Through endless summer hours, 
O I would hum God's garden through 
For honey till I came to you. 



PICTURES. 



191 



IN A GONDOLA. 

'Twas uight in Venice. Then down to the 

tide, 
Where a tall and a shadowy gondolier 
Leau'd on his oar, like a lifted si^ear; — 
'Twas uight iu Venice; then side by side 
We sat in his boat. Then oar a-trip 
On the black boat's keel, then dip and dip, 
These boatmen should build their boats 

more wide, 
For we were together, and side by side. 

The sea it was level as seas of light. 
As still as the light ere a hand was laid 
To the making of lands, or the seas were 

made. 
'Twas fond as a bride on her bridal night 
When a great love swells in her soul like a 

sea. 
And makes her but less than divinity. 
'Twas night, — The soul of the day, I wis. 
A woman's face hiding from her first kiss. 



.Ah, how one wanders! 
all. 



Yet after it 



To laugh at all lovers and to learn to 
scoff. . . . 

When you really have naught of account 
to say. 

It is better, perhaps, to pull leaves by the 
way; 

Watch the roiand moon rise, or the red 
stars fall ; 

And then, too, in Venice! dear, moth- 
eaten town; 

One palace of pictures; great frescoes 
spill'd down 

Outside the walls from the fullness there- 
of:— 



'Twas night in Venice. On o'er the 

tide — 
These boats they are narrow as they can 

be. 
These crafts they are narrow enough, and 

we, 
To balance the boat, sat side by side — 
Out under the arch of the Bridge of Sighs, 
On under the arch of the star-sown skies; 
We two were together on the Adrian Sea, — 
The one lair woman of the world to me. 



I was vain enough to be persuadeil— London, 1877-8— into publishing two fat volumes of my "complete" 
poems. The work was dedicated to Lord Houghton, who generously gave permission without lookinj, it over. But 
he had the good taste to dislike the empty verbosity, imitations and all such weaknesses of the mass, and had 
the gentility to promptly tell me so. Better still, he took a pencil and struck out much. Braver still, he heartily 
indorsed many descriptions of men and things in the West, and here and there wrote "Pictures! Pictures." And 
so iu memory of the most helpful friend I ever had I have put these bits together here, along with some others of 
like character, and called them Pictures. 

Yet Houghton was not so stoutly my friend at first, and came forward only tardily as the rightful and undis- 
puted head of literary and social London, after I had my first success. But on my third and fourth visits to 
Europe, and when the pitiful jackals were loud in my laud, then he took mo to his heart and to his hearthstone. 
So that I am indebted to the small enmities of America for his great friendship. You may remember it was he 
who was first to know Keats ; and the last, too. For he it was who set up that stone with the poetical inscription. 
Here lies one whose name was writ in water." And for half a century Houghton kept that lowly grave the 
greenest and pleasantest in all Rome ; literally kept "The daisies growing over me." 

I see in the first volume of his biography, newly out, that he and Gladstone had some exchange of letters 
about myself ; and from this I suspect I owe this brave nobleman far more than he ever let me know. In his 
last letter, written from Greece when no longer strong, he says: "I command you accept the invitation to spend a 
season with Mr. Gladstone at Hawarden Castle. It is your duty to yourself and your great country to learn how 
the real king of England lives." 

Here ends, as a rule, my earlier poems; that is such as were written or outlined before going abroad; also 
such as were written in or of other lands. Of course no sharp lines can be drawn between old and new, if we follow 



192 



PICTURES. 



date of production, nor is that important. I only wish to point out that the place for a man to write is in his own 
country, of his own land and out of his own heart. He must have a home and he must have a heart for that home. 
True, some of these last and best poems were begixn and even published in Italy, but they never could have been 
finished there. Much of this foreign work is left out entirely, as beyond repair; for it was nearly all sad, even 
sickly. Song should be glad, lofty, beautiful. Besides some of it was bitter. As to whether I had a right to feel 
so utterly miserable in my exile does not matter now. I am thankful for the strength that kept me silent and the 
courage that brought me home to the brave and bright young lovers of the beautiful Truth by the sea of seas. Those 
of the new generation who gather about me see no reason why a man may not win fame or friends abroad if he 
can, and I would not have them see one word of bitterness in this book. For truly there is nothing of the sort in 
my heart now at the last. 




LATER POEMS. 



193 



LATER POEMS. 

My Mountains still are free ! 
They hurl oppression hack ; 
They keep the boon of liberty. 



THE GOLD THAT GKEW BY SHASTA 
TOWN. 

From Shasta town to Kedding town 
The ground is torn by miners dead; 
The manzanita, rank and red, 
Drops dusty ben-ies up and down 
Their grass-grown trails. Their silent 

mines 
Are wrapped in chaparral and vines; 
Yet one gray miner still sits down 
'Twixt Redding and sweet Shasta town. 

The quail pipes pleasantly. The hare 
Leaps careless o'er the golden oat 
That grows below the water moat; 
The lizard basks in sunlight there. 
The brown hawk swims the perfumed air 
Dufrightened through the livelong day; 
And now and then a curious bear 
Comes shuffling down the ditch by night, 
And leaves some wide, long tracks in clay 
So human-like, so stealthy light, 
Where one lone cabin still stoops down 
'Twixt Eedding and sweet Shasta town. 

That great graveyard of hopes! of men 
Who sought for hidden veins of gold; 
Of young men suddenly grown old — 
Of old men dead, despairing when 
The gold was just within their hold! 
That storied land, whereon the light 
Of other days gleams faintly still; 
Somelike the halo of a hill 



That lifts above the falling night; 
That warm, red, rich and human land, 
That flesh-red soil, that warm red sand, 
Where one gray miner still sits down! 
'Twixt Redding and sweet Shasta town! 

" I know the vein is here!" he said; 
For twenty years, for thirty years! 
While far away fell tears on tears 
From wife and babe who mourned him 

dead. 
No gold! No gold! And he grew old 
And crept to toil with bended head 
Amid a graveyard of his dead. 
Still seeking for that vein of gold. 

Then lo, came laughing down the years 
A sweet grandchild! Between his tears 
He laughed. He set her by the door 
The while he toiled; his day's toil o'er 
He held her chubby cheeks between 
His hard palms, laughed; and laughing 

cried. 
You should have seen, have heard and 

seen 
His boyish joy, his stout old pride, 
When toil was done and he sat down 
At night, below sweet Shasta town! 



At last his strength was gone, 
more! 
I mine no more, I plant me now 
A vine and fig-tree; worn and old, 
I seek no more my vein of gold. 



No 



194 



LATER POEMS. 



But, oh, I sigh to give it o'er; 
These thirty years of toil! somehow 
It seems so hard; but now, no more." 

And so the old man set him down 
To plant, by pleasant Shasta town. 
And it was pleasant; piped the quail 
The full year through. The chipmunk 

stole, 
His whiskered nose and tossy tail 
Full buried in the sugar-bowl. 

And purple grapes and grapes of gold 
Swung sweet as milk. While orange-trees 
Grew brown with laden honey-bees. 
Oh! it was pleasant up and down 
That vine-set hill of Shasta town. 



And then that cloud-burst came! Ah, me! 
That torn ditch there! The mellow laud 
KoUed seaward like a rope of sand, 
Nor left one leafy vine or tree 
Of all that Eden nestling down 
Below that moat by Shasta town! 

The old man sat his cabin's sill, 
His gray head bowed to hands and knee; 
The child went forth, sang pleasantly, 
Where burst the ditch the the day before. 
And picked some pebbles from the hill. 
The old man moaned, moaned o'er and 

o'er: 
" My babe is dowerless, and I 
Must fold my helpless hands and die! 
Ah, me! What curse comes ever down 
On me and mine at Shasta town." 

" Good Grandpa, see!" the glad child 
said, 
And so leaned softly to his side, — 
Laid her gold head to his gray head, 
And merry voiced and cheery cried, 
"Good Grandpa, do not weep, biit see! 



I've found a peck of orange seeds! 
I searched the hill for vine or tree; 
Not one! — not even oats or weeds; 
But, oh! such heaps of orange seeds! 

"Come, good Grandpa! Now, once you 
said 
That God is good. So this may teach 
That we must plant each seed, and each 
May grow to be an orange tree. 
Now, good Grandpa, please raise youv 

head, 
And please comeplant the seeds with me." 
And prattling thus, or like to this, 
The child thrust her full hands in his. 

He sprang, sprang upright as of old. 
" 'Tis gold! 'tis gold! my hidden vein! 
'Tis gold for you, sweet babe, 'tis gold! 
Yea, God is good; we plant again! " 
So one old miner still sits down 
By pleasant, sunlit Shasta town. 



THE SIOUX CHIEF'S DAUGHTER. 

Two gray hawks ride the rising blast; 
Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro 
By peaks pre-eminent in snow; 
A sounding river rushes past, 
So wild, so vortex-like, and vast. 

A lone lodge tops the windy hill; 
A tawny maiden, mute and still. 
Stands waiting at the river's brink, 
As eager, fond as you can think. 
A mighty chief is at her feet; 
She does not heed him wooing so — 
She hears the dark, wild waters flow; 
She waits her lover, tall and fleet. 
From out far beaming hills of snow. 

He comes! The grim chief springs in 
air — 
His brawny arm, his blade is bare. 



LATER POEMS. 



195 



She turns; she lifts her round, brown 
hand; 
She looks him fairly in the face; 
She moves her foot a little pace 
And says, with calmness and command, 
"There's blood euoush in this lorn land. 



"But see! a test of strength and skill. 
Of courage and tierce fortitude; 
To breast and wrestle with the rude 
And storm-born waters, now I will 
Bestow you both, 

" Stand either side! 

And you, my burly chief, I know 

Would choose my right. Now peer you low 

Across the waters wild and wide. 

See! leaning so this morn I spied 

Red berries dip yon farther side. 

"See, dipping, dripping in the stream! 
Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam! 

" Now this, brave men, shall be the test : 
Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth 
To cut yon bough for bridal wreath. 
Plunge in! and he who bears him best. 
And brings yon ruddy fruit to land 
The first, shall have both heart and hand." 

Two tawny men, tall, brown and thewed 
Like antiqiie bronzes rarely seen. 
Shot up like flame. 

She stood between 
Like fixed, impassive fortitude. 
Then one threw robes with sullen air. 
And wound red fox-tails in his hair; 
But one with face of proud delight 
Entwined a wing of snowy white. 

She stood between. She sudden gave 
The sign and each impatient brave 



Shot sudden in the sounding wave; 
The startled waters gurgled round; 
Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound. 



Oh, then uprose the love that slept! 
Oh, then her heart beat loud and strong! 
Oh, then the proud love pent up long 
Broke forth in wail upon the air! 
And leaning there she sobbed and wept, 
With dark face mantled in her hair 

She sudden lifts her leaning brow. 
He uears the shore, her love! and now 
The foam flies spouting from the face 
That laughing lifts from out the race. 

The race is won, the work is done! 
She sees the kingly crest of snow; 
She knows her tall, brown Idaho. 
She cries aloiid, she laughing cries. 
And tears are streaming from her eyes: 
"O splendid, kingly Idaho! 
I kiss thy lifted crest of snow. 

" My tall and tawny king, come back! 
Come swift, O sweet! why falter so? 
Come! Come! What thing has crossed 
your track ? 

I kneel to all the gods I know 

Great Spirit, what is this I dread? 
Why, there is blood! the wave is red! 
That wrinkled chief, outstripped in race, 
Dives down, and, hiding from my face. 
Strikes underneath. 

"... He rises now! 
Now plucks my hero's berry bough. 
And lifts aloft his red fox head, 
And signals he has won for me. . . . 
Hist, softly! Let him come and see. 

"Oh, come! my white-crowned hero, 
come! 
Oh, come! and I will be your bride. 



196 



LATER POEMS. 



Despite yon chieftain's craft and might. 
Come back to me! my lips are dumb, 
My hands are helpless with despair; 
The hair you kissed, my long, strong hair, 
Is reaching to the ruddy tide. 
That you may clutch it when you come. 

" How slow he buflfets back the wave! 
O God, hesinks! O Heaven! save 
My brave, brave king! He rises! see! 
Hold fast, my hero! Strike for me. 
Strike straight this way! Strike firm and 

strong! 
Hold fast your strength. It is not long — 
O God, he sinks! He sinks! Is gone! 

"And did I dream and do I wake? 
Or did I wake and now but dream ? 
And what is this crawls from the stream ? 
Oh, here is some mad, mad mistake! 
What, you! the red fox at my feet? 
You first, and failing from the race? 
What! You have brought me berries red? 
What! You have brought your bride a 

wreath? 
You sly red fox with wrinkled face — 
That blade has blood between your teeth! 

" Lie low! lie low! while I lean o'er 
And clutch your red blade to the shore. . . 
Ha! ha: Take that! take that and that! 
Ha! ha! So, through your coward throat 

The full day shines! Two fox-tails float 

Far down, and I but mock thereat. 

" But what is this? What snowy crest 
Climbs out the willows of the west, 
All dripping from his streaming hair? 
'Tis he! My hero brave and fair! 
His face is lifting to my face, 
And who shall now dispute the race? 

"The gray hawks pass, O love! and 
doves 
O'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves. 



My hands shall heal your wounded 

breast, 
And in yon tall lodge two shall rest." 



TO THE CZAR. 

Down from her high estate she stept, 
A maiden, gently born. 
And by the icy Volga kept 
Sad watch, and waited morn; 
And peasants say that where she slept 
The new moon dipt her horn. 
Yet on and on, through shoreless snows, 
Far tow'rd the bleak north pole, 
The foulest wrong the good God knows 
EoUed as dark rivers roll; 
While never once for all their woes 
Upspake your ruthless soul. 

She toiled, she taught the peasant, 
taught 
The dark-eyed Tartar. He, 
Illumined with her lofty thought, 
Rose up and sought to be. 
What God at the creation wrought, 
A man! God-like and free. 
Yet still before him yawned the black 
Siberian mines! And oh. 
The knout upon the bare white back! 
The blood upon the snow! 
The gaunt wolves, close upon the track, 
Fought o'er the fallen so! 

A.ud this that one might wear a crown 
Snatched from a strangled sire! 
And this that two might mock or frown, 
From high thrones climbing higher— 
From where the Parricide looked down 
With harlot in desire! 
Yet on, beneath the great north star. 
Like some lost, living thing. 
That long dread line stretched, black and 
far 



LATER POEMS. 



197 



Till buried by death's wing! 

Aud great men praised the goodly Czar- 

But God sat pitying. 



A storm burst forth! From out the 
storm 
The clean, red lightning leapt, 

And lo, a prostrate royal form 

And Alexander slept! 

Down through the snow, all smoking, 

warm 
Like any blood, his crept. 
Yea, one lay dead, for millions dead! 
One red spot in the snow 
For one long damning line of red, 
Where exiles endless go — 
The babe at breast, the mother's head 
Bowed down, and dying so. 

And did a woman do this deed? 
Then build her scaffold high, 
That all may on her forehead read 
The martyr's right to die! 
King Cossack round on royal steed! 
Now lift her to the sky! 
But see! From out the black hood 

shines 
A light few look upon! 
Lorn exiles, see, from dark, deep mines, 

A star at burst of dawn! 

A thud! A creak of hangman's lines! — 
A frail shape jerked and drawn! 



The Czar is dead; the woman dead, 
About her neck a cord. 
In God's house rests his royal head — 
Her's in a place abhorred; 
Yet I bad rather have her bed 
Than thine, most royal lord! 
Aye, rather be that woman dead, 
Than thee, dead-living Czar, 
To hide in dread, with both hands red, 
Behind great bolt and bar .... 



You may control to the North Pole, 
But God still guides the star. 



TO RUSSIA. 

" Where wast thou when I laid the founda- 
tions of the earth? " — Bible, 

Who tamed your lawless Tartar blood ? 
What David bearded in her den 
The Russian bear in ages when 
You strode your black, unbridled stud, 
A skin-clad savage of your steppes ? 
Why, one who now sits low and weeps, 
Whj' one who now wails out to you — 
The Jew, the Jew, the homeless Jew. 

Who girt the thews of your young 
prime 
And bound your fierce divided force ? 
Why, who but Moses shaped your course 
United down the grooves of time? 
Your mighty millions all to-day 
The hated, homeless Jew obey. 
Who taught all poetry to you ? 
The Jew, the Jew, the hated Jew. 

Who taught you tender Bible tales 
Of honey-lauds, of milk and wine? 
Of happy, peaceful Palestine? 
Of Jordan's holy harvest vales? 
Who gave the patient Christ? I say. 
Who gave your Christian creed? Yea, 

yea. 
Who gave your verj' God to you ? 
Your Jew! Your Jew! Your hated Jew! 



TO RACHEL IN RUSSIA. 

" To bring them unto a good land and a 
large; unto a land Jiowi7ig with milk 
and honey." 

O thou, whose patient, peaceful blood 
Paints Shai-on's roses on thy cheek, 



198 



LATER POEMS. 



And down thy breasts played hide and 

seek, 
Six thoiisand years a stainless flood, 
Rise up and set thy sad face hence. 
Rise up and come where Freedom waits 
Within these white, wide ocean gates 
To give thee God's inheritance; 
To bind thy wounds in this despair; 
To braid thy long, strong, loosened hair. 

O Eachel, weeping where the flood 
Of icy Volga grinds and flows 
Against his banks of blood-red snows — 
White banks made red with children's 

blood — 
Lift up thy head, be comforted; 
For, as thou didst on manna feed, 
When Russia roamed a bear in deed, 
And on her own foul essence fed, 
So shalt thou flourish as a tree 
When Euss and Cossack shall not be. 

Then come where yellow harvests swell; 
Forsake that savage land of snows; 
Forget the brutal Russian's blows; 
And come where Kings of Conscience 

dwell. 
Oh come, Rebecca to the well! 
The voice of Rachel shall be sweet! 
The Gleaner rest safe at the feet 
Of one who loves her; and the spell 
Of Peace that blesses Paradise 
Shall kiss thy large and lonely eyes. 



THE BRAVEST BATTLE. 

The bravest battle that ever was fought; 
Shall I tell you where and when? 
On the maps of the world you will find 

it not; 
It was fought by the mothers of men. 

Nay, not with cannon or battle shot, 
With sword or nobler pen; 



Nay not with eloquent word or thought. 
From mouths of wonderful men. 

But deep in a walled-up woman's heart— 
Of woman that would not yield, 
But patiently, silently bore her part — 
Lo! there in that battlefield. 

No marshaling troop, no bivouac song; 
No banner to gleam and wave; 
And oh! these battles they last so long — 
From babyhood to the grave! 

Yet, faithful still as a bridge of stars, 
She fights in her walled-up town — 
Fights on and on in the endless wars. 
Then silent, unseen — goes down. 



RIEL, THE REBEL. 

He died at dawn in the land of snows; 
A priest at the left, a priest at the right; 
The doomed man praying for his pitiless 

foes. 
And each priest holding a low dim light. 
To pray for the soi;l of the dying. 
But Windsor Castle was far away; 
And Windsor Castle was never so gay 
With her gorgeous banners flying! 

The hero was hung in the windy dawn — 
'Twas splendidly done, the telegraph said; 
A creak of the neck, then the shoulders 

drawn; 
A heave of the breast — and the man hung 

dead. 
And, oh! never siich valiant dying! 
While Windsor Castle was far away 
With its fops and fools on that windy day. 
And its thousand banners flying! 

Some starving babes where a stark 
stream flows 
'Twixt windy banks by an Indian town. 



LATER POEMS. 



199 



A frenzied mother in the freezing snows, 
While softly the pitying snow came down 
To cover the dead and the dying. 
But Windsor Castle was gorgeous and gay 
With Hon banners that windy day — 
With lying banners flying. 



A CHRISTMAS EVE IN CUBA. 

Their priests are many, for many their 

sins. 
Their sins are many, for their land is fair; 
The perfumed waves and the perfumed 

winds. 
The cocoa-palms and the perfumed air; 
The proud old Dons, so poor and so 

proud, 
So poor their ghosts can scarce wear a 

shroud — 
This town of Columbus has priests and 

prayer; 
And great bells pealing in the palm land. 

A proiad Spanish Don lies shriven and 

dead; 
The cross on his breast, a priest at his 

prayer; 
His slave at his feet, his son at his head — 
A slave's white face in her midnight hair; 
A slave's white face, why, a face as white, 
As white as that dead man's face this 

night — 
This town of Columbus can pray for the 

dead; 
Such great bells booming in the palm land. 

The moon hangs dead up at heaven's 

white door; 
As dead as the isle of the great, warm seas; 
As dead as the Don, so proixd and so poor, 
With two quite close by the bed on their 

knees; 
The slave at his feet, the son at his head, 



And both in tears for the proud man 

dead — 
This town of Columbus has tears, if yo\i 

please; 
And great bells pealing in the palm land. 

Aye, both are in tears; for a child might 

trace 
In the face of the slave, as the face of the 

son, 
The same proud look of the dead man's 

face — 
The beauty of one; and the valor of one — 
The slave at his feet, the son at his head. 
This night of Christ, where the Don lies 

dead — 
This town of Columbus, this land of the 

sun 
Keeps great bells clanging in the palm 

land. 

The slave is so fair, and so wonderful 

fair! 
A statue stepped out from some temple of 

old; 
Why, you could entwine your two hands 

in her hair, 
Nor yet could encompass its ample, dark 

fold. 
And oh, that pitiful, upturned face; 
Her master lies dead — she knows her 

place. 
This town of Columbus has hundreds at 

prayer. 
And great bells booming in the palm land. 

The proud Don dead, and this son his 

heir; 
This slave his fortune. Now, what shall 

he do? 
Why, what should he do? or what should 

he care, 
Save only to cherish a pride as true? — 

To hide his shame as the good jjriebts 
hide 



200 



LATER POEMS. 



Black sins confessed when the damned 

have died. 
This town of Columb\;s has pride with 

her prayer — 
And great bells pealing in the palm land! 

Lo, Christ's own hour in the argent seas, 
And she, his sister, his own born slave! 
His secret is safe; just master and she; 
These two, and the dead at the door of 

the grave. . . . 
And death, whatever our other friends do, 
Why, death, my friend, is a friend most 

true — 
This town of Columbus keeps pride and 

keeps prayer. 
And great bells booming in the palm land. 



COMANCHE. 

A blazing home, a blood-soaked hearth; 
Fair woman's hair with blood upon! 
That Ishmaelite of all the earth 
Has like a cyclone, come and gone — 
His feet are as the blighting dearth; 
His hands are daggers drawn. 

" To horse! to horse!" the rangers shout. 
And red revenge is on his track! 
The black-haired Bedouin en route 
Looks like a long, bent line of black. 
He does not halt nor turn about; 
He scorns to once look back. 

But on! right on that line of black. 
Across the snow-white, sand-sown pass; 
The bearded rangers on their track 
Bear thirsty sabers bright as glass. 
Yet not one red man there looks back; 
His nerves are braided brass. 

At last, at last, their mountain came 
To clasp its children in their flight! 



Up, up from out the sands of flame 
They clambered, bleeding to their height; 
This savage summit, now so tame. 
Their lone star, that dread night! 

"Huzzah! Dismount!" the captain 
cried, 
" Huzzah! the rovers cease to roam! 
The river keeps yon farther side, 
A roaring cataract of foam. 
They die, they die for those wh© died 
Last night by hearth and home! " 

His men stood still beneath the steep; 
The high, still moon stood like a nun. 
The horses stood as willows weep; 
Their weary heads drooped every one. 
But no man there had thought of sleep; 
Each waited for the sun. 



Vast nun-white moon! Her silver rill 
Of snow-white peace she ceaseless poured; 
The rock-built battlement grew still. 
The deep-down river roared and roared. 
But each man there with iron will 
Leaned silent on his sword. 

Hark! See what light starts from the 
steeii! 
And hear, ah, hear that piercing sound. 
It is their lorn death-song they keep 
In solemn and majestic round. 
The red fox of these deserts deep 
At last is run to ground. 



Oh, it was weird, — that wild, pent 

horde! 
Their death-lights, their death-wails each 

one. 
The river in sad chorus roared 
And boomed like some great funeral gun. 
The while each ranger nursed his sword 
And waited for the sun. 



LATER POEMS. 



20I 



Then siidden star-tipped mountains topt 
With flame beyond! And watch-fires ran 
To where white peaks high heaven propt; 
And stars and lights left scarce a span. 
Why none could say where death-lights 

stopt 
Or where red stars began! 

And then such far, wild wails that 
came 
In tremulous and pitying flight 
From star-lit peak and peak of flame! 
Wails that had lost their way that night 
And knocked at each heart's door to claim 
Protection in their flight. 

0, chu-lu-le! 0, chu-lu-lo! 
A thousand red hands reached in air, 
0, chu-lu-le! O, chu-lu-lo! 
While midnight housed in midnight hair — 
0, chu-lu-le! O, chu-lu-lo! 
Their one last wailing prayer. 

And all night long, nude Kachels poured 
Melodious pity one by one 

From mountain tops The river roared 

Sad requiem for his braves undone. 
The while each ranger nursed his sword 
And waited for the sun. 



THE SOLDIERS' HOME, WASHING- 
TON. 

The monument, tipped with electric fire. 
Blazed high in a halo of light below 
My low cabin door in the hills that inspire; 
And the dome of the Capitol gleamed like 

snow 
In a glory of light, as higher and higher 
This wondrous creation of man was sent 
To challenge the lights of the firmament. 

A tall man, tawny and spare as bone. 
With battered old hat and with feet half 
bare, 



With the air of a soldier that was all his 

own — 
Aye, something more than a soldier's air — 
Came clutching a stafl", with a face like 

stone; 
Limped in throughmy gate — and I thought 

to beg — 
Tight clutching a stafif, slow dragging a 

leg. 

The bent new moon, like a simitar, 
Kept peace in Heaven. All earth lay still. 
Some sentinel stars stood watch afar, 
Some crickets kept clanging along the hill, 
As the tall, stern relic of blood and war 
Limped in, and, with hand up to brow 

half raised. 
Limped up, looked about, as one dazed or 

crazed. 

His gaunt face pleading for food and 

rest, 
His set lips white as a tale of shame. 
His black coat tight to a shirtless breast. 
His black eyes burning in mine-like flame; 
But never a word from his set lips came 
As he whipped in line his battered old leg, 
And his knees made mouths, and as if to 

beg. 

Aye! black were his eyes; but doubtfal 

and dim 
Their vision of beautiful earth, I think. 
And I doubt if the distant, dear worlds to 

him 
Were growing brighter as he neared the 

brink 
Of dolorous seas where phantom ships 

swim. 
For his face was as hard as the hard, thin 

hand 
That clutched that staff like an iron band. 

" Sir, I am a soldier'*'- The battered 
old hat 



202 



LATER POEMS. 



Stood up as he spake, like to one on 

parade — 
Stood taller and braver as he spake out 

that — 
And the tattered old coat, that was tightly 

laid 
To the battered old breast, looked so trim 

thereat 
That I knew the mouths of the battered 

old leg 
That had opened wide were not made to 

beg. 

"I have wandered and wandered this 
twenty year: 

Searched up and down for my regiments. 

Have they gone to that field where no foes 
appear ? 

Have they pitched in Heaven their cloud- 
white tents? 

Or, tell me, my friend, shall I find them 
here 

On the hill beyond, at the Soldiers' Home, 

Where the weary soldiers have ceased to 
roam? 



"Aye, I am a soldier and a brigadier; 
Is this the way to the Soldiers' Home? 
There is plenty and rest for us all, I hear. 
And a bugler, bidding us cease to roam. 
Rides over the hill all the livelong year — 
Rides calling and calling the brave to come 
And rest and rest in that Soldiers' Home. 



"Is this, sir, the way? I wandered in 

here 
Just as one oft will at the close of day. 
Aye, I am a soldier and a brigadier! 
Now, the Soldiers' Home, sir. Is this the 

way? 
I have wandered and wandered this twenty 

year, 
Seeking some trace of my regiments 
Sabered and riddled and torn to rents. 



" Aye, I am a soldier and a brigadier! 
A battered old soldier in the dusk of his 

day; 
But you don't seem to heed, or you don't 

seem to hear. 
Though, meek as I may, I ask for the 

way 
To the Soldiers' Home, which must be 

quite near, 
While under your oaks, in your easy 

chair, 
You sit and you sit, and you stare and 

you stare. 

" What battle? What deeds did I do in 
the fight? 

Why, sir, I have seen green fields turn as 
red 

As yonder red town in that marvelous 
light! 

Then the great blazing guns! Then the 
ghastly white dead — 

But, tell me, I faint, I must cease to 
roam! 

This battered leg aches! Then this sa- 
bered old head — 

Is — is this the way to the Soldiers' Home? 

"Why, I hear men say 't is a Paradise 
On the green oak hills by the great red 

town; 
That many old comrades shall meet my 

eyes; 
That a tasseled young trooper rides up 

and rides down. 
With bugle horn blowing to the still blue 

skies, ■v 

Rides calling and calling us to rest and to 

stay 
In that Soldiers' Home. Sir, is this the 

way? 

" My leg is so lame! Then this sabered 
old head — 
A.h! pardon me. sir, I never complain; 



LATER POEMS. 



203 



But the road is so rough, as I just now 
said; 

Aud theu there is this somethiug that 
troubles my brain. 

It makes the light dance from you Capi- 
tol's dome; 

It makes the road dim as I doubtfully 
tread — 

And — sir, is this the way to the Soldier's 
Home? 

"From the first to the last in that des- 
perate war — 
Why, I did my part. If I did not fall, 
A hair's breadth measure of this skull- 
bone scar 
Was all that was wanting; and then this 

ball— 
But what cared I? Ah! better by far 
Have a sabered old head and a shattered 

old knee 
To the end, than not had the praise of 
Lee — 

"What! What do I hear? No home 

there for uie? 
Why, I heard men say that the war was at 

end! 
Oh, my head swims so; and I scarce can 

see! 
But a soldier's a soldier, I think, my 

friend, 
Wherever that soldier may chance to be! 
And wherever a soldier may chance to 

roam, 
Why, a Soldiers' Home is a soldier's 

home! " 

He turned as to go; but he sank to the 
grass; 
And I lifted my face to the firmament; 
For I saw a sentinel white star pass, 
Leading the way the old soldier went. 
And the light shone bright from the Capi- 
tol's dome, 



Ah, brighter from Washington's monu- 
ment, 
Lighting his way to the Soldiers' Home. 
The Cabin, Washington, D. C. 



OLIVE. 



Dove-borne symbol, olive bough; 
Dove-hued sign from God to men. 
As if still the dove and thou 
Kept companionship as then. 

Dove-hued, holy branch of peace, 
Antique, all-enduring tree; 
Deluge and the floods surcease — 
Deluge and Gethsemane. 



THE BATTLE FLAG AT SHENAN- 
DOAH. 

The tented field wore a wrinkled 

frown. 
And the emptied church from the hill 

looked down 
On the emptied road and the emptied 

town. 
That summer Sunday morning. 

And here was the blue, and there was 
the gray; 
And a wide green valley rolled away 
Between where the battling armies lay, 
That sacred Sunday morning. 

And Custer sat, with impatient will. 
His restless horse, 'mid his troopers 

still. 
As he watched with glass from the oak-set 

hill, 
That silent Sunday morning. 

Then fast he began to chafe aud to 
fret; 
"There's a battle flag on a bayonet 



204 



LATER POEMS. 



Too close to my own true soldiers set 
For peace this Sunday morning! " 

"Eide over, some one," he haughtily 

said, 
" And bring it to me! Why, in bars blood 

red 
And in stars I will stain it, and overhead 
Will flaunt it this Sunday morning! " 

Then a West-born lad, pale-faced and 
slim, 
Rode out, and touching his cap to him, 
Swept down, swept swift as Spring swal- 
lows swim. 
That anxious Sunday morning. 

On, on through the valley! up, up, any- 
where! 

That pale-faced lad like a bird through the 
air 

Kept on till he climbed to the banner 
there 

That bravest Sunday morning! 

And he caught up the flag, and aroiwid 
his waist 
He wound it tight, and he turned in haste. 
And swift his perilous route retraced 
That daring Sunday morning. 

All honor and praise to the trusty steed! 
Ah! boy, and banner, and all God speed! 
God's pity for you in your hour of need 
This deadly Sunday morning. 



O, deadly shot! and O, shower of lead! 
O, iron rain on the brave, bare head! 
Why, even the leaves from the trees fall 

dead 
This dreadful Sunday morning! 

But he gains the oaks! Men cheer in 
their might! 
Brave Custer is laughing in his delight! 
Why, he is embracing the boy outright 
This glorious Sunday morning! 

But, soft! Not a word has the pale boy 

said. 
He unwinds the flag. It is starred, striped, 

red 
With his heart's best blood; and he falls 

down dead, 
In God's still Sunday morning. 

So, wrap this flag to his soldier's breast; 
Into stars and stripes it is stained and 

blest; 
And under the oaks let him rest and rest 
Till God's great Sunday morning. 



THE LOST REGIMENT.* 

The dying land cried; they heard her 
death-call. 

These bent old men stopped, listened in- 
tent; 

Then rusty old muskets rushed down from 
the wall. 



*In a pretty little village of Louisiana^ destroyed by shells toward the end of the war, on a bayou back from 
the river, a great number of very old men had been left by their sons and grandsons, while they went to the war. 
And these old men, many of them veterans of other wars, formed themselves into a regiment, made for themselves 
uniforms, picked up old ilintlock guns, even mounted a rusty old cannon, and so prepared to go to battle if ever 
the war came within their reach. Toward the close of the war some gunboats came down the river shelling the 
shore. Tlie old men heard the firing, and, gathering together, they set out with their old muskets and rusty old 
cannon to try to reach the river over the corduroy road through the cypress swamp. They marched out right merrily 
that hot day, shouting and bantering to encourage each other, the dim fires of their old eyes burning with desire 
of battle, although not one of them was young enough to stand erect. And they never came back any more. The 
shells from the gunboats set the dense and sultry woods on fire. The old men were shut in by the flames— the gray 
beards and the gray moss and the gray smoke together. 



LATER POEMS. 



205 



And squirrel-guns gleamed in that regi- 
ment, 

And graudsires marched, old muskets in 
hand — 

The last men left in the old Southland. 

The gray grandsires! They were seen 

to reel, 
Their rusty old muskets a wearisome 

load; 
They marched, scarce tall as the cannon's 

wheel. 
Marched stooping on up the corduroy 

road; 
These gray old boys, all broken and 

bent. 
Marched out, the gallant last regiment. 

But oh! that march through the cypress 

trees. 
When zest and excitement had died away! 
That desolate march through the marsh to 

the knees — 
The gray moss mantling the battered and 

gray— 
These gray grandsires all broken and 

bent — 
The gray moss mantling the regiment. 

The gray bent men and the mosses 

gray; 
The dull dead gray of the uniform! 
The dull dead skies, like to lead that 

day. 
Dull, dead, heavy and deathly warm! 
Oh, what meant more than the cypress 

meant. 
With its mournful moss, to that regiment? 

That deadly march through the marshes 
deep! 
That sultry day and the deeds in vain! 
The rest on the cypress roots, the sleep — 
The sleeping never to rise again! 



The rust on the guns; the rust and the 

rent — 
That dying and desolate regiment! 

The muskets left leaning against the 

trees, 
The cannon wheels clogged from the moss 

o'erhead. 
The cyijress trees bending on obstinate 

knees 
As gray men kneeling by the gray men 

dead! 
A lone bird rising, long legged and 

gray. 
Slow rising and rising and drifting away. 

The dank dead mosses gave back no 

sound. 
The drums lay silent as the drummers 

there; 
The sultry stillness it was so profound 
You might have heard an unuttered 

prayer; 
And ever and ever and far away, 
Kept drifting that desolate bird in gray. 

The long gray shrouds of that cypress 

wood, 
Like vails that sweep where the gray nuns 

weep — 
That cypress moss o'er the dankness 

deep, 
Why, the cypress roots they were running 

blood; 
And to right and to left lay an old man 

dead — 
A mourning cypress set foot and head. 

'Twas man hunting men in the wilder- 
ness there; 

'Twas man hunting man and hunting to 
slay. 

But nothing was found but death that 
day. 



2o6 



LATER POEMS. 



And possibly God — aud that bird in 

gray 
Slow rising and rising and drifting away. 

Now down in the swamp where the gray 

men fell 
The fireflies volley and volley at night, 
And black men belated are heard to tell 
Of the ghosts in gray in a mimic fight — 
Of the ghosts of the gallant old men in 

gray 
Who silently died in the swamp that day. 



CUSTEK. 

Oh, it were better dying there 
On glory's front, with trumpet's blare, 
And battle's shout blent wild about — 
The sense of sacrifice, the roar 
Of war! The soul might well leap out — 
The brave, white soul leap boldly out 
The door of wounds, and up the stair 
Of heaven to God's open door. 
While yet the knees were bent in prayer. 



THE WORLD IS A BETTER WORLD. 

Aye, the world is a better old world to- 
day! 
And a great good mother this earth of 

ours; 
Her white to-morrows are a white stair- 
way 
To lead \is up to the star-lit flowers — 
The spiral to-morrows that one by one 
We climb and we climb in the face of the 
sun. 

Aye, the world is a braver old world to- 
day! 
For many a hero dares bear with wrong — 
Will laugh at wrong and will turn away; 



Will whistle it down the wind with a 

song — 
Dares slay the wrong with his splendid 

scorn! 
The bravest old hero that ever was bom! 



OUTSIDE OF CHURCH. 

It seems to me a grandest thing 
To save the soul from perishing 
By planting it where heaven's rain 
May reach and make it grow again. 

It seems to me the man who leaves 
The soul to perish is as one 
Who gathers up the empty sheaves 
When all the golden grain is done. 



DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI AT NIGHT. 

Sowing the waves with a fiery rain, 
Leaving behind us a lane of light, 
Weaving a web in the woof of night. 
Cleaving a continent's wealth in twain. 

Lighting the world with a way of flame. 
Writing, even as the lightnings write 
High over the awful arched forehead of 

night, 
Jehovah's dread, unutterable name. 



A NUBIAN FACE ON THE NILE. 

One night we touched the lily shore, 
And then passed on, in night indeed. 
Against the far white waterfall. 
I saw no more, shall know no more 
Of her for aye. And you who read 
This broken bit of dream will smile, 
Half vexed that I saw aught at all. 



LATER POEMS. 



207 



The waves struck strophes on the shore 
And all the sad song of the oar 
That long, long night against the Nile, 
Was: Nevermore and nevermore 
This side that shadowy shore that lies 
Below the leafy Paradise. 



LA EXPOSICION. 

NEW ORLEANS. 

The banners! The bells! The red ban- 
ners! 
The rainbows of banners! The chimes! 
The music of stars! The sweet manners 
Of peace in old pastoral times! 

The coming of nations ! Kings bringing 
Rich gifts to Republics! The trees 
Of paradise, and birds singing 
By the bank of De Soto's swift seas! 



LINCOLN PARK. 

Unwalled it lies, and open as the sun 
When God swings wide the dark doors of 

the East. 
Oh, keep this one spot, still keep this 

one, 
Where tramp or banker, laymen or high 

priest, 
May equal meet before the face of God: 
Yea, equals stand upon that common sod 
Where they shall one day equals be 
Beneath, for aye, and all eternity. 



THE RIVER OF REST. 

A beautiful stream is the River of Rest; 
The still, wide waters sweep clear and 

cold, 
A tall mast crosses a star in the west, 



A white sail gleams in the west world's 

gold: 
It leans to the shore of the River of 

Rest — 
The lily-lined shore of the River of Rest. 

The boatman rises, he reaches a hand. 
He knows you well, he will steer you 

true, 
And far, so far, from all ills upon land. 
From hates, from fates that pursue and 

pursue; 
Far over the lily-lined River of Rest — 
Dear mystical, magical River of Rest. 

A storied, sweet stream is this River of 

Rest; 
The souls of all time keep its ultimate 

shore; 
And journey you east or journey you 

west. 
Unwilling, or willing, sure footed or 

sore. 
You surely will come to this River of 

Rest— 
This beautiful, beautiful River of Rest. 



THE NEW PRESIDENT. 

Granite and marble and granite, 
Corridor, column and dome! 
A capitol huge as a planet 
And massive as marble-built Rome. 



Stair steps of granite to glory! 
Go up with thy face to the sun; 
They are stained with the footsteps and 

story 
Of giants and battles well won. 

Stop — stand on this stairway of gran- 
ite, 
Lo! Arlington, storied and still. 



208 



LATER POEMS. 



With a lullaby husli. But the land it 
Springs fresh as that sun-fronted hill. 

Beneath us stout-hearted Potomac 
In majesty moves to the sea — 
Beneath us a sea of proud people 
Moves on, undivided as he. 

Yea, strife it is over and ended 
For all the days under the sun; 
The banners unite and are blended 
As moonlight and sunlight in one. 

Lo! banners and banners and banners, 
Broad star-balanced banners of blue — 
If a single star fell from fair heaven. 
Why, what would befall us, think you ? 



MONTGOMEEY AT QUEBEC. 

Sword in hand he was slain; 
The snow his winding sheet; 
The grinding ice at his feet — 
The river moaning in pain. 

Pity and peace at last; 
Flowers for him to-day 
Above on the battlements gray — 
And the river rolling past. 



BY THE BALBOA SEAS. 

The golden fleece is at our feet. 
Our hills are girt in sheen of gold; 
Our golden flower- fields are sweet 
With honey hives. A thousand-fold 
More fair our fruits on laden stem 
Thau Jordan tow'rd Jerusalem. 

Behold this mighty sea of seas! 
The ages pass in silence by. 
Gold apples of Hesperides 



Hang at our God-land gates for aye. 
Our golden shores have golden keys 
Where sound and sing the Balboa seas. 



MAGNOLIA BLOSSOMS. 

The broad magnolia's blooms are white; 
Her blooms are large, as if the moon 
Had lost her way some lazy night, 
And lodged here till the afternoon. 

Oh, vast white blossoms breathing love! 
White bosom of my lady dead. 
In your white heaven overhead 
I look, and learn to look above. 



CALIFOKNIA'S CHRISTMAS. 

The stars are large as lilies! Morn 
Seems some illumined story — 
The story of our Savior born, 
Told from old turrets hoary — 
The full moon smiling tips a horn 
And hies to bed in glory! 

My sunclad city walks in light 
And lasting summer weather; 
Bed roses bloom on bosoms white 
And rosy cheeks together. 
If you should smite one cheek, still smite 
For she will turn the other. 

The thronged warm street tides to and 
fro 
And Love, roseclad, discloses. 
The only snowstorm we shall know 
Is this white storm of roses — 
It seems like Maytime, mating so, 
And — Nature counting noses. 

Soft sea winds sleep on yonder tide; 
You hear some boatmen rowing. 



LATER POEMS. 



209 



Their sisters' hands trail o'er the side; 
They toy with warm waves flowing; 
Their laps are laden deep and wide 
From rose-trees green and growing. 

Such roses white! such roses red! 
Such roses richly yellow! 
The air is like a perfume fed 
From autumn fruits full mellow — 
But see! a brother bends his head, 
An oar forgets its fellow! 



Give me to live in land like this, 
Nor let me wander further; 
Some sister in some boat of bliss 
And I her only brother — 
Sweet paradise on earth it is; 
I would not seek another. 



THOSE PERILOUS SPANISH EYES. 

Some fragrant trees, 
Some flower-sown seas 
Where boats go up and down, 
And a sense of rest 
To the tired breast 
In this beauteous Aztec town. 



But the terrible thing in this Aztec 

town 
That will blow men's rest to the stormiest 

skies, 
Or whether they journey or they lie 

down — 
Those perilous Spanish eyes! 

Snow walls without, 
Drawn sharp about 
To prop the sapphire skies! 
Two huge gate posts. 
Snow-white like ghosts — 
Gate posts to paradise! 



But, oh! turnback from the high-walled 
town! 
There is trouble enough in this world, I 

surmise. 
Without men riding in regiments down — 
Oh, perilous Spanish eyes! 
Mexico City, 1880. 



NEWPORT NEWS. 



Merri- 



The huge sea monster, the 

mac; " 
The mad sea monster, the " Monitor; " 
You may sweep the sea, peer forward and 

back, 
But never a sign or a sound of war. 
A vulture or two in the heavens blue; 
A sweet town building, a boatman's call: 
The far sea-song of a pleasure crew; 
The sound of hammers. And that is all. 

And where are the monsters that tore 

this main? 
And where are the monsters that shook 

this shore? 
The sea grew mad! And the shore shot 

flame! 
The mad sea monsters they are no more. 
The palm, and the pine, and the sea sands 

brown; 
The far sea songs of the pleasure crews; 
The air like balm in this building town — 
And that is the picture of Newport News. 



THE COMING OF SPRING. 

My own and my only Love some night 
Shall keep her tryst, shall come from the 

South, 
And oh, her robe of magnolia white! 
And oh, and oh, the breath of her 

mouth! 



2IO 



LATER POEMS, 



And oh, her grace in the grasses sweet! 
And oh, her love in the leaves new born! 
And oh, and oh, her lily-white feet 
Set daintily down in the dew-wet morn! 

The drowsy cattle at night shall kneel 
And give God thanks, and shall dream and 

rest; 
The stars slip down and a golden seal 
Be set on the meadows my Love has blest. 

Come back, my Love, come sudden, 
come soon. 

The world lies waiting as the cold dead 
lie; 

The frightened winds wail and the crisp- 
curled moon 

Kides, wrapped in clouds, up the cold gray 
sky. 

Oh, Summer, my Love, my first, last 
Love! 
I sit all day by Potomac here, 
Waiting and waiting the voice of the dove; 
Waiting my darling, my own, my dear. 

The Cabin, Washington, D. C. 



OUK HEROES OF TO-DAY. 
I. 

With high face held to her ultimate 

star, 
With swift feet set to her mountains of 

gold, 
This new-built world, where the wonders 

are. 
She has built new ways from the ways of 

old. 



Her builders of worlds are workers with 
hands; 
Her triae world-builders are builders of 
these, 



The engines, the plows; writing poems in 

sands 
Of gold in our golden Hesperides. 



I reckon these builders as gods among 

men: 
I count them creators, creators who 

knew 
The thrill of dominion, of conquest, as 

when 
God set His stars spinning their spaces of 

blue. 



A song for the groove, and a song for 

the wheel. 
And a roaring song for the rumbling 

car; 
But away with the pomp of the soldier's 

steel. 
And away forever with the trade of war. 



V. 

The hero of time is the hero of thought; 
The hero who lives is the hero of 

peace; 
And braver his battles than ever were 

fought. 
From Shiloh back to the battles of Greece. 



The hero of heroes is the engineer; 
The hero of height and of gnome-built 

deep. 
Whose only fear is the brave man's fear 
That some one waiting at home might 

weep. 

VII, 

The hero we love in this land to-day 
Is the hero who lightens some fellow- 
man's load — 



LATER POEMS. 



211 



Who makes of the mouutain some pleasant 
highway; 

Who makes of the desert some blossom- 
sown road. 



Then hurrah! for the land of the golden 

downs, 
For the golden laud of the silver horn; 
Her heroes have built her a thousand 

towns. 
But never destroyed her one blade of 

corn. 



BY THE LOWEK MISSISSIPPI. 

The king of rivers has a dolorous 

shore, 
A dreamful dominion of cypress-trees, 
A gray bird rising forever more. 
And drifting away toward the Mexican 

seas — 
A lone bird seeking for some lost mate, 
So dolorous, lorn and desolate. 



The shores are gray as the sands are 

gray; 
And gray are the trees in their cloaks of 

moss; — 
That gray bird rising and drifting away, 
Slow dragging its weary long legs across — 
So weary, just over the gray wood's 

brink; 
It wearies one, body and soul, to think. 



These vast gray levels of cypress 

wood. 
The gray soldiers' graves; and so, God's 

will— 
These cypress-trees' roots are still running 

blood; 



The smoke of battle in their mosses 

still- 
That gray bird wearily drifting away 
Was startled some long-since battle day. 



HEK PICTURE. 

I see her now — the fairest thing 
That ever mocked man's picturing, 
I picture her as one who drew 
Aside life's curtain and looked through 
The mists of all life's mystery 
As from a wood to open sea. 



I picture her as one who knew 
How rare is truth to be untrue — 
As one who knew the awful sign 
Of death, of life, of the divine 
Sweet pity of all loves, all hates, 
Beneath the iron-footed fates. 



I picture her as seeking peace, 
And olive leaves and vine-set laud; 
While strife stood by on either hand, 
And wrung her tears like rosaries. 
I picture her in passing rhyme 
As of, yet not a part of, these — 
A woman born above her time. 



The soft, wide eyes of wonderment 
That trusting looked you through and 

through; 
The sweet, arched mouth, a bow new 

bent, 
That sent love's an-ow swift and true. 



That sweet, arched mouth! The Orient 
Hath not such pearls in all her stores, 
Nor all her storied, spice-set shores 
Have fragrance such as it hath spent. 



212 



LATER POEMS. 



DROWNED. 

A fig for her story of shame and of 

pride! 
She strayed in the night and her feet fell 

astray; 
The great Mississippi was glad that day, 
And that is the reason the poor girl died; 
The great Mississippi was glad, I say, 
And splendid with strength in his fierce, 

full pride — 
And that is the reason the poor girl died. 

And that was the reason, from first to 

last; 
Down under the dark, still cypresses there 
The Father of Waters he held her fast. 
He kissed her face, he fondled her hair, 
No more, no more an unloved outcast. 
He clasped her close to his great, strong 

breast, 
Brave lover that loved her last and best: 

Around and around in her watery world, 
Down under the boughs where the bank 

was steep. 
And cypress trees kneeled all gnarly and 

curled. 
Where woods were dark as the waters were 

deep. 
Where strong, swift waters were swept and 

swirled. 
Where the whirlpool sobbed and sucked in 

its breath. 
As some great monster that is choking to 

death: 



Where sweeping and swirling around and 

around 
That whirlpool eddied so dark and so 

deep 
That even a populous world might have 

drowned. 
So surging, so vast, and so swift its 

sweep — 



She rode on the wave. And the trees that 

weep. 
The solemn gray cypresses leaning o'er; 
The roots that ran blood as they leaned 

from the shore! 

She surely was drowned! But she 

should have lain still; 
She should have lain dead as the dead 

under ground; 
She should have kept still as the dead on 

the hill! 
But ever and ever she eddied around. 
And so nearer and nearer she drew me 

there 
Till her eyes met mine in their cold dead 

stare. 

Then she looked, and she looked as to 

look me through; 
And she came so close to my feet on the 

shore; 
And her large eyes, larger than ever before. 
They never grew weary as dead men's do. 
And her hair! as long as the moss that 

swept 
From the cypress trees as they leaned and 

wept. 

Then the moon rose up, and she came 

to see, 
Her long white fingers slow pointing there; 
Why, shoulder to shoulder the moon with 

me 
On the bank that night, with her shoulders 

bare. 
Slow pointing and pointing that white face 

out. 
As it swirled and it swirled, and it swirled 

about. 

There ever and ever, around and around. 
Those great sad eyes that refused to sleep! 
Reproachful sad eyes that had ceased to 
weep! 



LATER POEMS. 



213 



And the great whirlpool with its gurgling 

sound! 
The reproachful dead that was not yet 

dead! 
The long Btrong hair from that shapely 

head! 

Her hair was so long! so marvelous 
long, 

As she rode and she rode on that whirl- 
pool's breast; 

And she rode so swift, and she rode so 
strong, 

Never to rest as the dead should rest. 

Oh, tell me true, could her hair in the 
wave 

Have grown, as grow dead men's in the 
grave ? 

For, hist! I have heard that a virgin's 
hair 
Will grow in the grave of a virgin tri;e. 
Will fjjrow and grow in the coffin there. 
Till head and foot it is filled with hair 
All silken and soft — but what say you? 
Yea, tell me truly can this be true? 

For oh, her hair was so strangely long 
That it bound her about like a veil of 

night, 
With only her pitiful face in sight! 
As she rode so swift, and she rode so 

strong, 
That it wrapped her about, as a shroiid 

had done, 
A shroud, a coffin, and a veil in one. 

And oh, that ride on the whirling tide! 
That whirling and whirling it is in my 

head, 
For the eyes of my dead they are not yet 

dead. 
Though surely the lady had long since 

died: 



Then the mourning wood by the waterj' 

grave; 
The moon's white face to the face in the 

wave. 



That moon I shall hate! For she left 

her place 
Unasked up in heaven to show me that 

face. 
I shall hate forever the sounding tide; 
For oh, that swirling it is in my head 
As it swept and it swirled with my dead 

not dead, 
As it gasped and it sobbed as a God that 

died. 



AFTEK THE BATTLE. 

Sing banners and cannon and roll of 

drum! 
The shouting of men and the marshaling! 
Lo! cannon to cannon and earth struck 

dumb! 
Oh, battle, in song, is a glorious thing! 

Oh, glorious day, riding down to the 
fight! 
Oh, glorious battle in story and song! 
Oh, godlike man to die for the right! 
Oh, manlike God to revenge the wrong! 

Yea, riding to battle, on battle day — 
Why, a soldier is something more than a 

king! 
But after the battle! The riding away! 
Ah, the riding away is another thing! 



BY THE PACIFIC OCEAN. 

Here room and kingly silence keep 
Companionship in state austere. 
The dignity of death is here, 
The large, lone vastness of the deep. 



214 



LATER POEMS. 



Here toil has pitched his camp to rest, 
The west is banked against the west. 

Above yon gleaming skies of gold 
One loue imperial peak is seen; 
While gathered at his feet in green 
Ten thousand foresters are told. 
And all so still! so still the air 
That duty drops the web of care. 

Beneath the sunset's golden sheaves 
The awful deep walks with the deep, 
Where silent sea doves slip and sweep. 
And commerce keeps her loom and weaves. 
The dead red men refuse to rest; 
Their ghosts illume my lurid West. 



CHEISTMAS BY THE GKEAT KIVEE. 

Oh, lion of the ample earth, 
What sword can cleave thy sinews through ? 
The south forever cradles you; 
And yet the great North gives you birth. 

Go find an arm so strong, so sure, 
Go forge a sword so keen, so true, 
That it can thrust thy bosom through; 
Then may this union not endure! 

In orange lands I lean to-day 
Against thy warm tremendous mouth. 
Oh, tawny lion of the Soiath, 
To hear what story you shall say. 

What story of the stormy North, 
Of frost-bound homes, of babes at play — 
What tales of twenty States the day 
You left your lair and leapt forth: 

The day you tore the mountain's breast 
And in the icy North uprose. 
And shook your sides of rains and snows, 
And rushed against the South to rest: 



Oh, tawny river, what of they. 
The far North folk ? The maiden sweet- 
The ardent lover at her feet — 
What story of thy States to-day! 



The river kissed my garment's hem, 
And whispered as it swept away: 
" God's story in all States tO'day 
Is of a babe of Bethlehem." 



GEANT AT SHILOH. 

The blue and the gray! Their work was 

well done! 
They lay as to listen to the water's flow. 
Some lay with their faces upturned to the 

sun. 
As seeking to know what the gods might 

know. 
Their work was well done, each soldier 

was true. 
But what is the question that comes to 

you? 

For all that men do, for all that men 

dare, 
That river still runs with its stateliest 

flow. 
The sun and the moon I scarcely think 

care 
A fig for the fallen, of friend or of foe. 
But the moss-mantled cypress, the old 

soldiers say, 
Still mantles in smoke of that battle 

day! 

These men in the dust! These pitiful 

dead! 
The gray and the blue, the blue and the 

gray. 
The headless trunk and the truukless 

head; 
The image of God in the gory clay! 



LATER POEMS. 



215 



And who was the bravest? Say, can you 

tell 
If Death throws dice with a loaded shell? 



TWILIGHT AT THE HIGHTS. 

The brave young city by the Balboa 

seas 
Lies compassed about by the hosts of 

night — 
Lies humming, low, like a hive of bees; 
And the day lies dead. And its spirit's 

flight 
Is far to the west; while the golden bars 
That bound it are broken to a dust of 

stars. 

Come iinder my oaks, oh, drowsy 

dusk! 
The wolf and the dog; dear incense hour 
When Mother Earth hath a smell of 

musk. 
And things of the spirit assert their 

power — 
When candles are set to burn in the 

west — 
Set head and foot to the day at rest. 



AKBOK DAY. 

Against our golden orient dawns 
We lift a living light to-day. 
That shall outshine the splendid bronze 
That lords and lights that lesser Bay. 

Sweet Paradise was sown with trees; 
Thy very name, lorn Nazareth, 
Means woods, means sense of birds and 

bees, 
And song of leaves with lisping breath. 

God gave us Mother Earth, full blest 
With robes of green in healthful fold; 



We tore the green robes from her breast! 
We sold our mother's robes for gold! 

We sold her garments fair, and she 
Lies shamed and naked at our feet! 
In penitence we plant a tree; 
We plant the cross and count it meet. 

Lo, here, where Balboa's waters toss, 
Here in this glorious Spanish bay. 
We plant the cross, the Christian cross. 
The Crusade Cross of Arbor Day. 



PETEE COOPER. 

DIED 1883. 

Give honor and love forevermore 
To this great man gone to rest; 
Peace on the dim Plutonian shore, 
Rest in the land of the blest. 

I reckon him greater than any man 
That ever drew sword in war; 
I reckon him nobler than king or khan, 
Braver and better by far. 

And wisest he in this whole wide land 
Of hoarding till bent and gray; 
For all j'ou can hold in your cold dead 

hand 
Is what you have given away. 

So whether to wander the stars or to 
rest 
Forever hushed and dumb. 
He gave with a zest and he gave his best — 
Give him the best to come. 



THE DEAD MILLIONAIRE. 

The gold that with the sunlight lies 
In bursting heaps at dawn. 
The silver spilling from the skies 
At night to walk upon, 



2l6 



LATER POEMS. 



The diamonds gleaming in the dew 
He never saw, he never knew. 

He got some gold, dug from the mud, 
Some silver, crushed from stones. 

The gold was red with dead men's blood, 

The silver black with groans; 

And when he died he moaned aloud 

"There'll be no pocket in my shroud." 



THE LAKGEK COLLEGE. 

ON LAYING THE COLLEGE CORNER-STONE. 

Where San Diego seas are warm, 
Where winter winds from warm Cathay 
Sing sibilant, where blossoms swarm 
With Hybla's bees, we come to lay 
This tribute of the truest, best. 
The warmest daughter of the West, 

Here Progress plants her corner-stone 
Against this warm, still, Cortez wave. 
In ashes of the Aztec's throne, 
In tummals of the Toltec's grave. 
We plant this stone, and from the sod 
Pick painted fragments of his god. 

Here Progress lifts her torch to teach 
God's pathway through the pass of care; 
Her altar-stone Balboa's Beach, 
Her incense warm, sweet, perfumed air; 
Such incense! where white strophes 

reach 
And lap and lave Balboa's Beach! 

We plant this stone as some small seed 
Is sown at springtime, warm with earth; 
We sow this seed as some good deed 
Is sown, to gi-ow until its worth 
Shall grow, through rugged steeps of time, 
To touch the god-built stars sublime. 

We lift this lighthouse by the sea. 
The westmost sea, the westmost shore, 



To guide man's ship of destiny 
When Scylla and Charybdis roar; 
To teach him strength, to proudly teach 
God's grandeur, where His white palms 
reach: 

To teach not Sybil books alone; 
Man's books are but a climbing stair, 
Lain step by step, like stairs of stone; 
The stairway here, the temple there — 
Man's lampad honor, and his trust. 
The God who called him from the dust. 

Man's books are but man's alphabet. 
Beyond and on his lessons lie — 
The lessons of the violet. 
The large gold letters of the sky; 
The love of beauty, blossomed soil, 
The large content, the tranquil toil: 

The toil that nature ever taught, 
The patient toil, the constant stir. 
The toil of seas where shores are wrought, 
The toil of Christ, the carpenter; 
The toil of God incessantly 
By palm-set land or frozen sea. 

Behold this sea, that sapphire sky! 
Where nature does so much for man, 
Shall man not set his standard high, 
And hold some higher, holier plan? 
Some loftier plan than ever planned 
By outworn book of outworn land? 

Where God has done so much for 
man! 
Shall man for God do aught at all? 
The soul that feeds on books alone — 
I count that soul exceeding small 
That lives alone by book and creed, — 
A soul that has not learned to read. 

The light is on us, and such light! 
Such perfumed warmth of winter sea! 



LATER POEMS. 



217 



Such musky smell of maiden night! 


The light is with us! Eead and lead! 


Such bridal bough and orange tree! 


The larger book, the loftier deed! 


Such -wondrous stars! Yon lily moon 




Seems like some long-lost afternoon! 






THE POEM BY THE POTOMAC 


More perfect than a string of pearls 




We hold the full days of the year; 


Paine! The Prison of France! La- 


The days troop by like flower girls, 


fayette! 


And all the days are ours here. 


The Bastile key to our Washington, 


Here youth must learn; here age may 


Whose feet on the neck of tyrants set 


live 


Shattered their prisons every one. 


Full tide each day the year can give. 


The key hangs here on his white walls 

high. 
That all shall see, that none shall for- 




No frosted wall, no frozen hasp, 


get 


Shuts Nature's book from us to-day; 


What tyrants have been, what they may 


Her palm leaves lift too high to clasp; 


be yet; 


Her college walls the milky way. 


And the Potomac rolling by. 



♦ Two or three hundred steps to the right and up a general incline and you stand on the broad, high porch of 
Mount Vernon. 

A great river creeps close underneath one hundred feet or two below. Yon might suppose you could throw a 
stone, standing ou the porch, into the Potomac as seen through the trees that hug the hillside and the water's 
bank below. All was quiet, so quiet. Now and then a barnyard fowl, back in the rear, strained his glossy neck and 
called out loud and clear in the eternal Sabbath here; a fine shaggy dog wallowed and romped about the grassy 
dooryard, while far out over the vast river some black, wide-winged birds kept circling round and round. I went 
back and around into the barnyard to inquire what kind of birds they were. 1 met a very respectful but very 
stammery negro here. He took his cap in his hand, and twisting it all about and opening his mouth many times, 
he finally said: 

" Do-do-dose burds was created by de Lord to p-p-pu-purify de yearth." 

" But what do you call them, uuclei' " 

"Tur-tur-tur," and he twisted his cap, backed out, came forward, winked his eyes, but could not go on. 

" Do you mean turkey buzzards f " 

" Ya-yayas, sah, do-do-dose burds eats up de carrion ob de yearth, sab." 

Down yonder is the tomb, the family vault. Back in the rear of the two marble coffins about thirty of the 
Washington family lie. The vault Is locked up and closed forever. The key has been thrown into the trusty old 
Potomac to lie there imtil the last trump shall open all tombs. 

Let no one hereafter complain of having to live in a garret alone and without a fire For here, with all this 
spacious and noble house to select from, the widow of Washington chose a garret looking to the south and out upon 
his tomb. This is the old tomb where he was first laid to rest and where the fallen oak leaves are crowding in 
heaps now and almost filling up the low, dark doorway. 

This garret has but one window, a small and narrow dormer window, and is otherwise quite dark A bottom 
corner of the door is cut away so that her cat might come and go at will. And this is the saddest, tenderest sight 
at Mount Vernon. It seemed to me that I could see this noble lady sitting here, looking out upon the tomb of her 
mighty dead, the great river sweeping fast beyond, her heart full of the memory of a mighty Nation's birth, wait- 
ing, waiting, waiting. 

The thing, however, of the most singular interest here is a key of the Bastile, presented by Thomas Paine to 
Lafayette, who brought it to America and presented it to Mount Vernon. It hangs here in a glass case, massive and 
monstrous. It is a hideous, horrible thing, and has, perhaps, more blood and misery on it than any other piece of 
iron or steel that was ever seen. 



2l8 



LATER POEMS. 



On Washington's walls let it rust and 

rust, 
And tell its story of blood and of tears, 
That Time still holds to the Poet's trust, 
To people his pages for years and years. 
The monstrous shape on the white walls 

high, 
Like a thief in chains let it rot and 

rust — 
Its kings and adorers crowned in dust: 
And the Potomac rolling by. 



A DEAD CAEPENTER. 

What shall be said of this soldier now 
dead? 

This builder, this brother, now resting for- 
ever? 

What shall be said of this soldier who 
bled 

Through thirty-three years of silent en- 
deavor ? 



Why, name him thy hero! Yea, write 

his name down 
As something far nobler, as braver by 

far 
Than purple-robed Caesar of battle-torn 

town 
When bringing home glittering trophies 

of war. 



Oh, dark somber pines of my starlit 
Sierras, 
Be silent of song, for the master is mute! 



The Carpenter, master, is dead and lo! 

there is 
Silence of song upon nature's draped lute! 

Brother! Oh, manly dead brother of 

mine! 
My brother by toil 'mid the toiling and 

lowly, 
My brother by sign of this hard hand, by 

sign 
Of toil, and hard toil, that the Christ has 

made holy: 

Yea, brother of all the brave millions 
that toil; 

Brave brother in patience and silent en- 
deavor. 

Best on, as the harvester rich from his 
soil. 

Rest you, and rest you for ever and ever. 



OLD GIB AT CASTLE ROCKS.* 

His eyes are dim, he gropes his way, 
His step is doubtful, slow. 
And now men pass him by to-day: 
But forty years ago — 
Why forty years ago I say 
Old Gib was good to know. 

For forty years ago to-day, 
Where cars glide to and fro, 
The Modoc held the world at bay, 
And blood was on the snow. 
Ay, forty years ago I say 
Old Gib was good to know. 



*Parties with Indian depredation claims against the Government desiring exact information toucliing the first 
trouble with the Modocs, now nearly forty years ago, the venerable leader of the volunteers in the first battle made 
out, with his own hand, the following quaint account of it, swore to it before a Notary, and sent it to Washington. 
The Italics, capitals, and all are as he set them down in his crude but truthful way.— Franfc Leslie's Magazine, 1893. 

I Reuben P Gibson Was Born in Lowell Mass in 1826 of American Parents, shiped on board a whaler of New 
Bedford in 1846, Rounded Cape Horn, spent several years on the Paciffic Ocean, and in 1846 landed in California. 
Came to the Mines in Shasta County California, and have lived here in Shasta County more than 40 years, most of 



LATER POEMS. 



219 



Full forty years ago to-day 


I'll take a fight in mine. 


This valley lay in flame; 


Come let us fight; come let us die! " 


Up yonder pass and far away, 


There came just twenty-nine. 


Red ruin swept the same: 




Two women, with their babes at play, 
Were butchered in black shame. 


Just twenty-nine who dared to die. 
And, too, a motley crew 




Of half-tamed red men; would they fly, 


'T was then with gun and flashing eye 


Or would they fight him too? 


Old Gib loomed like a pine; 


No time to question or reply. 


"Now will you fight, or will you fly ? 


This was a time to do. 



■which time 1 have been and am now a Magistrate. I have had much to do with Indians, and in 1855 they became 
Very Restless, and some of them took to the Castle Rocks, Called Castle del Diablo, at that time by the Mexicans, 
and they— the Hostiles began to destroy our Property, and Kill White people. Troops of the Regular Army tried 
to engage them, but found them inaccessible. I then raised a Company of Twenty-Nine White men and thirty 
Indian (friendly) Scouts and after hard Perilous Marches by Night, We engaged and destroyed the Hostiles, having 
taken Many Scalps. This battle was Fought in the Castle Rocks in this Shasta County and was in June 1855. The 
hostiles were Modocs and Other Renegades and this was the first Battle in a war that Spread all over the Coast I 
had Some Indians hurt, and one man mortally wounded, James Lane by name. Some Others were more or less 
hurt with Arrows. Joaquin Miller Received an Arrow in the face and Neck at my Side and we thought would die 
but at last got Well. He and Mountain Joe had a Post at Soda Springs below Castle Rocks, and their property 
had been destroyed and made untenable. In all My Experience I know of nothing in Indian warfare so effectual 
for good as this Campaign. The Indians had Possession of the lines of travel connecting Middle and Northern 
California and it Was impossible for the Mails to get through until the Hostiles were destroyed. 

(Signed) Reuben P Gibson 

Subscribed and sworn to before me this 17th day of November, 1832, and I hereby certify that I am well 

acquainted with said affiant and know him to be a person of veracity and entitled to credit. He is a Justice of the 

Peace in this Shasta County 

F. P. Primm, 

[seal.] Notary Public in and for Shasta County, Cal. 



Let me here introduce a line of facts stranger than anything imagined in all these pages. I, had not 
intended to insert these verses and had delivered to my publishers the completed collection without them. Against 
my objection that the lines were not only too personal, but unequal, it was urged that they would be missed by my 
readers; besides their preservation was due to my old commander, and as this was the first of my three terrible 
Indian campaigns, and I had served only as private instead of leader, I could hardly be held guilty of egotism. 
Deference to the dead made me consent to try and find the lines at once in some library. On my way I met a man 
whom I knew but slightly as U. S. Marshal under President Hayes. My weary eyes were unequal to the task before 
me, and I asked him to go with me. We found the magazine and he kindly offered to copy the lines and send 
them to me. This he did; and now let his letter tell the rest. 

"Oakland, Dec. 20, 1896. 

"Joaquin, my dear fellow, I enclose herewith the copies you expressed a wish for. I think they are exact. I 
was especially careful in making the affidavit of Old Gib; so where he differs with Webster orthographically, I 
follow Gib. 

"Now ray boy, I've a little story. I'll be considerate and make it brief. In the early part of the summer of 
1855, I was one of a company of about twenty that left Auburn, Placer Co , on a prospecting expedition, intending, 
unless we found satisfactory prospects nearer, to go to the Trinity. We crossed the Yuba and Feather, camping a 
few days on Nelson Creek, then traveling in a northwesterly direction, we reached the headwaters of the Sacra- 
mento, where we found a party of white men and Indians who, a day or two previous to our meeting them, had 
had a desperate fight with Indians. They told us they had lost several men, killed and wounded, but had nearly 



220 



LATER POEMS. 



Up, up, straight up where thunders 
grow 
And growl in Castle Eocks, 
Straight up till Shasta gleamed in snow, 
And shot red battle shocks; 
Till clouds lay shepherded below, 
A thousand ghostly flocks. 

Yet up and up Old Gibson led, 
No looking backward then; 
His bare feet bled; the rocks were red 
Fi'om torn, bare-footed men. 
Yet up, up, up, till well nigh dead — 
The Modoc in his den! 

Then cried the red chief from his 
height, 
"Now, white man, what would you ? 
Behold my hundreds for the fight, 
But yours so faint and few; 
We are as rain, as hail at night 
But you, you are as dew. 

"White man, go back; I beg go back, 
I will not fight so few; 
Yet if I hear one rifle crack, 
Be that the doom of you! 
Back! down, I say, back down your 

track. 
Back, down! What else to do?" 

" What else to do? Avenge or die! 
Brave men have died before; 
And you shall fight, or you shall fly. 



You find no women more, 

No babes to butcher now; for I 

Shall storm yoiir Castle's door ! " 

Then bang ! whiz bang ! whiz bang and 
ping! 
Six thousand feet below, 
Sweet Sacramento ceased to sing, 
But wept and wept, for oh! 
These arrows sting as adders sting. 
And they kept stinging so. 

Then one man cried: " Brave men have 
died, 
And we can die as they; 
Bat ah! my babe, my one year's bride! 
And they so far away. 
Brave Captain lead us back — aside, 
Must all here die to-day? " 

His face, his hands, his body bled: 
Yea, no man there that day — 
No white man there but turned to red. 
In that fierce fatal fray; 
But Gib with set teeth only said: 
" No; we came here to stay! " 

They stayed and stayed, and Modocs 
stayed. 
But when the night came on, 
No white man there was now afraid, 
The last Modoc had gone; 
His ghost in Castle Kocks was laid 
Till everlasting dawn. 



i 



extermiuateJ the Indians. I saw one of their men, a boy in appearance, who had, as I understood, received two 
arrow wounds in the face and neck. He was in great pain, and no one believed he could recover. 

"Twelve years later I, then Sheriff of Placer Co., had occasion to go to Shasta on official business. \V. E. 
Hopping was then Sheriff of Shasta Co. In the coiurse of conversation with him, I spoke of the incident narrated 
above. He interrupted nie, and said: 'The Captain of the volunteers at the battle is in town." He found him, 
and introduced me to the man who was doul)tless Old Gib, though his name has gone from my memory. I asked 
about the young fellow who was so desperately wounded. ' Oh, he pulled through all right, the game little cus?,' 
said he, ' he's up in Oregon, I believe.' I don 't think he mentioned his name, but in copying the affidavit of Old 
Gib, it dawned upon me who that ' game little cuss ' was. Yours, 

A. W. Poole." 



i 



LATER POEMS. 



221 



DON'T STOP AT THE STATION 


The Fortunate Isles where the yellow 


DESPAIR. 


birds sing 




And life lies girt with a golden ring. 


We must trust the Conductor, most 


surely; 




Why, millious of millions before 


These Fortunate Isles they are not so 


Have made this same journey securely 


far. 


And come to that ultimate shore. 


They lie within reach of the lowliest 


And we, we will reach it in season; 


door; 


And ah, what a welcome is there! 


You can see them gleam by the twilight 


Keflect then, how out of all reason 


star; 


To stop at the Station Despair. 


You can hear them sing by the moon's 




white shore — 


Ay, midnights and many a potion 


Nay, never look back! Those leveled 


Of bitter black water have we 


grave stones 


As we journey from ocean to ocean — 


They were lauding steps; they were steps 


From sea unto ultimate sea — 


unto thrones 


To that deep sea of seas, and all silence 


Of glory for souls that have sailed be- 


Of passion, concern and of care — 


fore, 


That vast sea of Eden-set Islands — 


And have set white feet on the fortunate 


Don't stop at the Station Despair! 


shore. 


Go forward, whatever may follow, 


And what are the names of the Fortu- 


Go forward, friend-led, or alone; 


nate Isles ? 


Ah me, to leap oflf in some hollow 


Why, Duty and Love and a large content. 


Or fen, in the night and unknown — 


Lo! these are the Isles of the watery 


Leap off like a thief; try to hide you 


miles. 


From angels, all waiting you there! 


That God let down from the firmament. 


Go forward; whatever betide you 


Lo! Duty, and Love, and a true man's 


Don't stop at the Station Despair! 


trust; 




Your forehead to God though your feet in 




the dust; 




Lo! Duty, and Love, and a sweet babe's 


THE FORTUNATE ISLES. 


smiles, 




And these, friend, are the Fortuuate 


You sail and you seek for the Fortunate 
Isles, 


Isles. 


The old Greek Isles of the yellow birds 




song? 
Then steer straight on through the watery 


BACK TO THE GOLDEN GATE. 


miles, 


Yea, we have tracked the hemispheres. 


Straight on, straight on and you can't go 


Have touched on fairest land that lies 


wi-ong. 


This side the gates of Paradise, 


Nay not to the left, nay not to the right. 


Have ranged the universe for years; 


But on, straight on, and the Isles are in 


Have read the book of Truth right on, 


sight, 


From title leaf to colophon. 



222 



LATER POEMS. 



DEAD IN THE LONG, STEONG 
GKASS.* 

Dead! stark dead in the long, strong 

grass! 
But he died with his sword in his 

hand. 
Who says it? who saw it? God saw it! 
And I knew him! St. George! he would 

draw it, 
Though they swooped down in mass 
Till they darkened the land! 
Then the seventeen wounds in his breast! 
Ah! these witness best. 

Dead! stark dead in the long, strong 
grass ! 
Dead! and alone in the great dark land! 



O mother! not Empress now, mother! 
A nobler name, too, than all other. 
The laurel leaf fades from thy hand! 
O mother that waiteth, a mass! 
Masses and chants must be said. 
And cypress, instead. 



GAKFIELD. t 

" Bear me out of the battle, for lo, I am 
sorely wounded." 

From out the vast, wide-bosomed West, 
Where gnarled old maples make array, 
Deep scarred from Redmen gone to rest, 
Where unnamed heroes hew the way 
For worlds to follow in their quest, 



* Born to the sadale and bred by a chain of events to ride with the wind until I met the stolid riders of Eng- 
land, I can now see how it was that Anthony TroUope, Lord Houghton and others of the saddle and " meet " gave 
me ready place in their midst. Not that the English were less daring; but they were less fortunate; may I say less 
experienced. I recall the fact that I ouce found Lord Houghton's brother, Lord Crewe, and his son also, under 
the hands of the surgeon in New York— one with a broken thigh, and the other with a few broken ribs. But in all 
our hard riding I nfver had a scratch. 

One morning Trollope hinted that my immunity was due to my big Spanish saddle, which I had brought from 
Mexico City. I threw my saddle on the grass and rode without so much as a blanket. And I rode neck to neck; 
and then left them all behind and nearly everyone unhorsed. 

Prince Napoleon was of the party that morning; and as the gentlemen pulled themselves together on the 
return he kept by my side, and finally proposed a tour through Notts and Sherwood Forest on horseback. And so 
it fell out that we rode together much. 

But he had already been persistently trained in the slow military methods, and It was in vain that I tried to 
teach him to cling to his horse and climb into the saddle as he ran, after the fashion of Indians and vaqueros. 
He admired it greatly, but seemed to think it unbecoming a soldier. 

It was at the Literary Fund dinner, where Stanley and Prince Napoleon stood together when they made 
their speeches, that I saw this brave and brilliant young man for the last time. He was about to set out for 
Africa with the English troops to take part in the Zulu war. 

He seemed very serious. When about to separate he took my hand, and, looking me all the time in the face, 
placed a large diamond ou my finger, saying something about its being from the laud to which he was going. I 
refused to take it, for I had heard that the Emperor died poor. But as he begged me to keep it, at least till he 
should come back, it has hardly left my hand since he placed it there. 

Piteous that this heir to the throne of France should die alone in the yellow grass at the hand of savages in 
that same land where the great Emperor had said, "Soldiers, from yonder pyramids twenty centuries behold your 
deeds." 

IWalt Whitman chanced to be in Boston when I last visited Mr. Longfellow, and I was delighted to hear the 
poet at his table in the midst of his perfect family speak of him most kindly; for at tliis time the press and all 
small people were abusing Whitman terribly. Soon after he looked me up at my hotel in Boston, and we two 
called on the good, gray poet together. I mention this merely to italicize the suggestion that Longfellow's was a 
large nature. 

Many others, I know, stood nearer him, so much nearer and dearer, and maybe I ought not to claim the right 
to say much of a sacred nature; but somehow I always felt, when he reached out his right hand and drew me to 



LATER POEMS. 



223 



Where pipes the quail, where squirrels 

play 
Through tops of trees with nuts for 

toy, 
A boy stood forth clear-eyed and tall, 
A timid boy, a bashful boy. 
Yet comely as a sou of Saul — • 

A boy all friendless, all unknown, 
Yet heir apparent to a throne: 



A throne the proudest yet on earth 
For him who bears him noblest, best, 
And this he won by simple worth, 
That boy from out the wooded West. 
And now to fall! Pale-browed and prone 
He lies in everlasting rest. 
The nations clasp the cold, dead hand; 
The nations sob aloud at this; 



The only dry eyes in the land 
Now at the last we know are his; 
While she who sends a wreath won 
More conquest than her hosts had done. 



Brave heart, farewell. The wheel has 
run 
Full circle, and behold a grave 
Beneath thy loved old trees is done. 
The druid oaks lift up and wave 
A solemn beckon back. The brave 
Old maples welcome, every one. 
Receive him, earth. In center land, 
As in the center of each heart, 
As in the hollow of God's hand, 
The coffin sinks. And we depart 
Each on his way, as God deems best 
To do, and so deserve to rest. 



him, and looked me fairly and silently in the face with his earnest seer eyes, that he knew me, did not dislike me, 
and that he knew, soul to soul, we each sought the good and the beautiful and true, each after his fashion, and as 
best he knew. 

He had a pretty way of always getting out of the house— that beautiful house of his, where Washington had 
dwelt— into the woods. He possessed a wonderful lot of books, but he knew the birds, the crickets, the flowers, 
woods and grasses were more in my way, and with rare delicacy he never talked on books at all, but led out at 
once, whenever possible, to our mutual friends in the rear of the old Headquarters of Washington. 

It was on this occasion that a pall of black suddenly fell upon the Kepublic. Gartield lay dead at Elberon ! 

A publisher solicited from each of the several authors then in and about Boston some tribute of sorrow for 
the dead. The generous sum of §100 was checked as an earnest. I remember how John Boyle O'Reilly and I 
went to big-hearted Walt Whitman and wrestled with him in a vain effort to make him earn and accept his $100. 

"Yes, I'm sorry as the sorriest; sympathize with the great broken heart of the world over this dead sov- 
ereign citizen. But I've nothing to say." 

And so, persuade as we might, even till past midnight, Walt Whitman would not touch the money or try to 
write a line. He was poor; but bear it forever in testimony that he was honest, and would not promise to sell that 
which he felt that God had not at that moment given him to sell. And hereafter, whenever any of you are dis- 
posed to speak or even think unkindly of Walt Whitman, remember this refusal of his to touch a whole heap of 
money when he might have had it for ten lines, and maybe less than ten minutes' employment. I love him for it. 
There is not a butcher, nor a baker, nor a merchant, nor a banker in America, perhaps, who would have been, 
under the circumstances, so stubbornly, savagely honest with the world and himself. 

Early next morning I went to Mr. Longfellow in great haste and read my lines. Kindly he listened as I 
read, and then carefully looked them all over and made some important improvements. He had also partly writ- 
ten, and read me, his poem on the sad theme. But it was too stately and fine for company with our less mature 
work, and at the last moment it was withheld on the plea that it was still incomplete. It soon after appeared in 
the New York Independent. As I was hastening away with my manuscript for the press, he said as he came with 
me down to the gate, that the Queen of England had done more to conquer America by sending the wreath for 
the funeral of the dead President than all the Georges had ever done with all their troops and cannon. And he 
said it in such a poetical way that I thought it an unfinished couplet of his poem. I never saw him any more. 



224 



LATER POEMS. 



TO THE CALIFOKNIA PIONEEKS. 

READ IN SAN FRANCISCO, 1894. 

How swift this sand, gold-laden, runs! 
How slow these feet, once swift and 

firm! 
Ye came as romping, rosy sons. 
Come jocund up at College term; 
Ye came so jolly, stormy, strong. 
Ye drown'd the roll-call with your song. 
But now ye lean a list'ning ear 
A.nd — "Adsum! Adsum! lam here!" 

My brave world-bearers of a world 
That tops the keystone, star of States, 
All hail! Your battle flags are furled 
In fruitful peace. The golden gates 
Are won. The jasper walls be yours. 
Your sun sinks down yon soundless 

shores. 
Night falls. But lo! your lifted eyes 
Greet gold outcroppings in the skies. 

Companioned with Sierra's peaks 
Our storm-born eagle shrieks his scorn 
Of doubt or death, and upward seeks 
Through unseen worlds the coming morn. 
Or storm, or calm, or near, or far. 
His eye fixed on the morning star, 
He knows, as God knows, there is dawn; 
And so keeps on, and on, and on! 

So ye, brave men of bravest days. 
Fought on and on with battered shield, 
Up bastion, rampart, till the rays 
Of full morn met ye on the field. 
Ye knew not doubt; ye only knew 
To do and dare, and dare and do! 
Ye knew that time, that God's first-born, 
Would turn the darkest night to moru. 

Ye gave your glorious years of youth 
And lived as heroes live — and die. 
Ye loved the truth, ye lived the truth; 
Ye knew that cowards only lie. 
Then heed not now one serpent's hiss, 



Or trait 'rovis, trading, Judas kiss. 
Let slander wallow in his slime; 
Still leave the truth to God and time. 

Worn victors, few and true, such clouds 
As track God's trailing garment's hem 
Where Shasta keeps shall be your shrouds, 
And ye shall pass the stars in them. 
Your tombs shall be while time endures, 
Such hearts as only truth secures; 
Your everlasting monuments 
Sierra's snow-topt battle tents. 



JAVA. 



"And darkness loas upon the face of the 
deep; and the Spirit of God moved upon 
the luaiers." 

The oceans roar; the mountains reel; 
The world stands still, with bated breath. 
Now burst of flame! and woe and weal 
All drowned in darkness and in death. 
Wild beasts in herds, strange, beauteous 

birds — 
God's rainbow birds,— gone in a breath! 

God! is earth, then, incomplete— 
The six days' labor not yet done — 
That she must melt beneath Thy feet 
And her fair face forget the sun? 
Must isles go down, and cities drown, 
And good and evil be as one? 

The great, warm heart of Mother Earth 
Is broken o'er her Javan Isles. 
Lo! ashes strew her ruined hearth 
Along a thousand watery miles. 
I hear her groan, I hear her moan. 
All day above her drowning isles. 

Tall ships are sailing silently 
Above her buried isles to-day. 
In marble halls beneath the sea 



LATER POEMS. 



225 



The sea-god's children shout and play; 
They mock and shout in merry rout 
Where mortals dwelt but yesterday. 



MOTHER EGYPT. 

Dark-browed, she broods with weary 
lids 
Beside her Sphynx and Pyramids, 
With low and never-lifted head. 
If she be dead, respect the dead; 
If she be weeping, let her weep; 
If she be sleeping, let her sleep; 
For lo, this woman named the stars! 
She suckled at her tawny dugs 
Your Moses while you reeked in wars 
And prowled your woods, nude, painted 
thugs. 

Then back, brave England; back in 

peace 
To Christian isles of fat increase! 
Go back! Else bid your high priests mold 
Their meek bronze Christs to cannon bold; 
Take down their cross from proud St. 

Paul's 
And coin it into cannon-balls! 
You tent not far from Nazareth. 
Your camps trench where his child-feet 

strayed. 
If Christ had seen this work of death! 
If Christ had seen these ships invade! 

I think the patient Christ had said, 
"Go back, brave men! Take up your 

dead; 
Draw down your great ships to the seas; 
Eepass the gates of Hercules. 
Go back to wife with babe at breast, 
And leave lorn Egypt to her rest.'* 
Or is Christ dead, as Egypt is? 
Ah, England, hear me j'et again; 
There's something grimly wrong in this — 
So like some gray, sad woman slain. 



What would yoii have your mother do ? 
Hath she not done enough for you ? 
Go back! And when you learn to read, 
Come read this obelisk. Her deed 
Like yonder awful forehead is 
Disdainful silence. Like to this 
What lessons have yoix writ in stone 
To passing nations that shall stand? 
Why, years as hers will leave you lone 
And level as yon yellow sand. 

Saint George? Your lions? Whence 
are they? 
From awful, silent Africa. 
This Egypt is the lion's lair; 
Beware, brave Albion, beware! 
I feel the very Nile should rise 
To drive you from this sacrifice. 
And if the seven plagues should come? 
The red seas swallow sword and steed? 
Lo! Christian lands stand mute and dumb 
To see thy more than Moslem deed. 



THE PASSING OF TENNYSON. 

My kingly kinsmen, kings of thought, 
I hear your gathered symphonies. 

Such nights as when the ivorld is not, 
And great stars chorus through my trees. 

We knew it, as God's prophets knew; 
We knew it, as mute red men know. 
When Mars leapt searching heaven 

through 
With flaming torch, that he must go. 
Then Browning, he who knew the stars, 
Stood forth and faced insatiate Mars. 

Then up from Cambridge rose and 

turned 
Sweet Lowell from his Druid trees — 
Turned where the great star blazed and 

burned, 
As if his own soul might appease. 



226 



LATER POEMS. 



Yet on aud on through all the stars 

Still searched and searched insatiate Mars. 



Then stanch Walt Whitman saw and 

knew; 
Forgetful of his " Leaves of Grass," 
He heard his "Drum Taps," and God 

drew 
His great soul through the shining 

pass, 
Made light, made bright by burnished 

stars; 
Made scintillant from flaming Mars. 



Then soft-voiced Whittier was heard 
To cease; was heard to sing no more. 
As you have heard some sweetest bird 
The more because its song is o'er. 
Yet brighter up the street of stars 
Still blazed and burned and beckoned 
Mars: 



And then the king came; king of 

thought, 

King David with his harp and crown 

How wisely well the gods had wrought 
That these had gone and sat them 

down 
To wait and welcome mid the stars 
All silent in the light of Mars. 



All silent So, he lies in state .... 

Our redwoods drip and drip with raiu .... 
Against our rock-locked Golden Gate 
We hear the great, sad, sobbing main. 
But silent all . . . .He passed the stars 
That year the whole world turned to 
Mars. 



IN CLASSIC SHADES.' 

Alone and sad I sat me down 
To rest on Kousseau's narrow isle 
Below Geneva, Mile on mile, 
And set with many a shining town, 
Tow'rd Dent dii Midi danced the wave 
Beneath the moon. Winds went and came 
And fanned the stars into a flame. 
I heard the far lake, dark and deep, 
Kise up and talk as in its sleep ; 
I heard the laughing waters lave 
And lap against the further shore, 
An idle oar, and nothing more 
Save that the isle had voice, and save 
That 'round about its base of stone 
There plashed and flashed the foamy 

Rhone. 

A stately man, as black as tan. 
Kept up a stern and broken round 
Among the strangers on the ground. 
I named that awful African 
A second Hannibal. 

I gat 
My elbows on the table ; sat 
With chin in upturned palm to scan 
His face, and contemplate the scene. 
The moon rode by a crowned queen. 
I was alone. Lo! not a man 
To speak my mother tongue. Ah me! 
How more than all alone can be 
A man in crowds! Across the isle 
My Hannibal strode on. The while 
Diminished Rousseau sat his throne 
Of books, imnoticed aud unknown. 

This strange, strong man, with face 
austere. 
At last drew near. He bowed; he spake 
In iinknown tongues. I could but shake 



♦The germ of song is, to my mind, a solemn gift. The prophet and the seer should rise above the levities of this 
life. And so it is that I make humble apology for now gathering up from recitation books these next half dozen 
pieces. The only excuse for doing it is their refusal to die; even under the mutilations of the compilers of "choice 
selections." 



LATER POEMS. 



227 



My head. Theu half acbill with fear, 
Arose, aud sought another place. 
Again I mused. The kings of thought 
Came by, and on that storied spot 
I lifted up a tearful face. 
The star-set Alps they sang a tune 
Unheard by any soul save mine. 
Mont Blanc, as lone and as divine 
Aud white, seemed mated to the moon. 
The past was mine ; strong-voiced and 

vast — 
Stern Calvin, strange Voltaire, and Tell, 
Aud two whose names are known too well 
To name, in grand procession passed. 



And j'et again came Hannibal; 
King-like he came, aud drawing near, 
I saw his brow was now severe 
Aud resolute. 

In tongue unknown 
Again he spake. I was alone, 
Was ail unarmed, was worn and sad ; 
But now, at last, my spirit had 
Its old assertion. 

I arose. 
As startled from a dull repose ; 
With gathered strength I raised a hand 
And cried, " I do not understand.' 



His black face brightened as I spake ; 
He bowed ; he wagged his woollj' head ; 
He showed his shining teeth, and said, 
"Sah, if you please, dose tables heah 
Am consecrate to lager beer ; 
And, sah, what will you have to take?" 



Not that I loved that colored cuss — 
Nay! he had awed me all too much — 
But I sprang forth, and with a clutch 
I grasped his hand, and holding thus, 
Cried, "Bring ray country's drink for two!" 



For oh! that speech of Saxon sound 
To me was as a fountain found 
In wastes, and thrilled me through and 
through. 



On Rousseau's isle, in Rousseau's shade. 
Two pink aud spicy drinks were made, 
In classic shades, on classic groimd, 
We stirred two cocktails round and round. 



THAT GENTLE MAN FROM BOSTON. 

AN IDYL OF OREGON. 

Two noble brothers loved a fair 
Young lady, rich and good to see; 
And oh, her black abundant hair! 
Aud oh, her wondrous witchery! 
Her father kept a cattle farm, 
These brothers kept her safe from harm: 

From harm of cattle on the hill; 
From thick-necked bulls loud bellowing 
The livelong morning, long and shrill, 
And lashing sides like anything! 
Prom roaring bulls that tossed the sand 
And pawed the lilies of the land. 

There came a third young man. He 
came 
From far and famous Boston town. 
He was not handsome, was not " game," 
But he could " cook a goose " as brown 
As any man that set foot on 
The mist kissed shores of Oregon. 

This Boston man he taught the school, 
Taught gentleness and love alway. 
Said love and kinduess, as a rule. 
Would ultimately "make it pay." 
He was so gentle, kind, that he 
Could make a noun and verb agree. 



228 



LATER POEMS. 



So when one day these brothers grew 
All jealous and did strip to fight, 
He gently stood between the two 
And meekly told them 'twas not right. 
" I have a higher, better plan," 
Outspake this gentle Boston man. 

" My plan is this: Forget this fray 
About that lily hand of hers; 
Go take yoiar gnns and hunt all day 
High up yon lofty hill of firs, 
And while you hunt, my ruffled doves, 
Why, I will learn which one she loves." 

The brothers sat the windy hill, 
Their hair shone yellow, like spi;n gold, 
Their rifles crossed their laps, but still 
They sat and sighed and shook with 

cold. 
Their hearts lay bleeding far below; 
Above them gleamed white peaks of snow. 

Their hounds lay crouching, slim and 
neat, 
A spotted circle in the grass. 
The valley lay beneath their feet; 
They heard the wide-winged eagles pass. 
Two eagles cleft the clouds above; 
Yet what coiild they but sigh and love? 

" If I could die," the elder sighed, 
" My dear young brother here might wed." 
"Oh, would to heaven I had died! " 
The younger sighed with bended head. 
Then each looked each full in the face 
And each sprang up and stood in place. 

*'If I could die" — the elder spake, — 
" Die by your hand, the world would say 
'Twas accident — ; and for her sake, 
Dear brother, be it so, I pray." 
"Not that! " the younger nobly said; 
Then tossed his gun and turned his head. 



And fifty paces back he paced! 
And as he paced he drew the ball; 
Then sudden stopped and wheeled and 

faced 
His brother to the death and fall! 
Two shots rang wild upon the air! 
But lo! the two stood harmless there! 



Two eagles poised high in the air; 
Far, far below the bellowing 
Of bullocks ceased, and everywhere 
Vast silence sat all questioning. 
The spotted hounds ran circling round. 
Their red, wet noses to the ground. 

And now each brother came to know 
That each had drawn the deadly ball; 
And for that fair girl far below 
Had sought in vain to silent fall. 
And then the two did gladly " shake," 
And thus the elder bravely spake: 

"Now let us run right hastily 
And tell the kind schoolmaster all! 
Yea! yea! and if she choose not me. 
But all on you her favors fall, 
This valiant scene, till all life ends, 
Dear brother, binds its best of friends. 

The hounds sped down, a spotted line. 
The bulls in tall abundant grass 
Shook back their horns from bloom and 

vine, 
And trumpeted to see them pass — 
They loved so good, they loved so true, 
These brothers scarce knew what to do. 



They sought the kind schoolmaster out 
As swift as sweeps the light of morn — 
They could but love, they could not doubt 
This man so gentle, "in a horn," 
They cried: " Now whose the lily hand — 
That lady's of this emer'ld land ?" 



LATER POEMS. 



229 



They bowed before that big-nosed man, 
That long-nosed man from Boston town; 
They talked as only lovers can, 
They talked, but he would only frown; 
And still they talked and still they plead; 
It was as pleading with the dead. 

At last this Boston man did speak — 
"Her father has a thousand ceows, 
An hundred bulls, all fat and sleek; 
He also had this ample heouse." 
The brothers' eyes stuck out thereat 
So far you might have hung your hat. 



" I liked the looks of this big heouse — 
My lovely boys, won't you come in? 
Her father had a thousand ceows — 
He also had a heap o' tin. 
The guirl ? Oh yes, the guirl, you see — 
The guirl, this morning married me." 



WILLIAM BEOWN OF OEEGON. 

They called him Bill, the hired man, 
But she, her name was Mary Jane, 
The squire's daughter; and to reign 
The belle from Ber-she-be to Dan 
Her little game. How lovers rash 
Got mittens at the spelling school! 
How many a mute, inglorious fool 
Wrote rhymes and sighed and dyed- 
mustache? 



This hired man had loved her long, 
Had loved her best and first and last, 
Her very garments as she passed 
For him had symphony and song. 
So when one day with flirt and frown 
She called him "Bill," he raised his 

heart, 
He caught her eye and faltering said, 
"I love you; and my name is Brown," 



She fairly waltzed with rage; she wept; 
You would have thought the house on fire. 
She told her sire, the portly squire. 
Then smelt her smelling-salts and slept. 
Poor William did what could be done; 
He swung a pistol on each hip. 
He gathered up a great ox-whip 
And drove right for the setting sun. 

He crossed the big backbone of earth. 
He saw the snowy mountains rolled 
Like nasty billows; saw the gold 
Of great big sunsets; felt the birth 
Of sudden dawn upon the plain; 
And every night did William Brown 
Eat pork and beans and then lie down 
And dream sweet dreams of Mary Jane. 

Her lovers passed. Wolves hunt iu 
packs, 
They sought for bigger game; somehow 
They seemed to see about her brow 
The forky sign of turkey tracks. 
The teter-board of life goes up. 
The teter-board of life goes down. 
The sweetest face must learn to frown; 
The biggest dog has been a pup. 

O maidens! pluck not at the air; 
The sweetest flowers I have found 
Grow rather close unto the ground 
And highest places are most bare. 
Why, you had better win the grace 
Of one poor cussed Af-ri-can 
Than win the eyes of every man 
In love alone with his own face. 



At last she nursed her true desire. 
She sighed, she wept for William Brown. 
She watched the splendid sun go down 
Like some great sailing ship on fire. 
Then rose and checked her trunks right 

on; 
And in the cars she lunched and lunched. 



230 



LATER POEMS. 



And had her ticket punched and punched, 
Until she came to Oregon. 

She reached the limit of the lines, 
She wore blue specs upon her nose, 
Worerathe-r short and manly clothes, 
And so set out to reach the mines. 
Her right hand held a Testament, 
Her pocket held a parasol. 
And thus eqiiipped right on she went, 
Went water-proof and water-fall. 

She saw a miner gazing down. 
Slow stirring something with a spoon; 
" O, tell me true and tell me soon, 
What has become of William Brown? " 
He looked askance beneath her specs. 
Then stirred his cocktail round and 

round. 
Then raised his head and sighed pro- 
found, 
And said, " He's handed in his checks." 

Then care fed on her damaged cheek. 
And she grew faint, did Mary Jane, 
And smelt her smelling salts in vain, 
Yet wandered on, way-worn and weak. 
At last upon a hill alone; 
She came, and there she sat her down; 
For on that hill there stood a stone, 
And, lo! that stone read, "William 
Brown." 

"O William Brown! O William Brown! 
And here you rest at last," she said, 
"With this lone stone above your head. 
And forty miles from any town! 
I will plant cypress trees, I will. 
And I will build a fence around. 
And I will fertilize the ground 
With tears enough to turn a mill." 

She went and got a hired man. 
She brought him forty miles from town, 
And in the tall grass squatted down 



And bade him build as she should plan. 
But cruel cowboys with their bands 
They saw, and hurriedly they ran 
And told a bearded cattle man 
Somebody builded on his lands. 

He took his rifle from the rack. 
He girt himself in battle pelt. 
He stuck two pistols in his belt. 
And mounting on his horse's back, 
He plunged ahead. But when they shewed 
A woman fair, about his eyes 
He pulled his hat, and he likewise 
Pulled at his beard, and chewed and 
chewed. 

At last he gat him down and spake: 
" O lady, dear, what do you here? " 
"I build a tomb unto my dear, 
I plant sweet flowers for his sake." 
The bearded man threw his two hands 
Above his head, then brought them down 
And cried, " O, I am William Brown, 
And this the corner-stone of my lands! " 

The preacher rode a spotted mare, 
He galloped forty miles or more; 
He swore he never had before 
Seen bride or bridegroom half so fair. 
And all the Injins they came down 
And feasted as the night advanced. 
And all the cowboys drank and danced. 
And cried: Biglnjin! William Brown. 



HORACE GREELEY'S DRIVE. 

The old stage-drivers of the brave old 

days! 
The old stage-drivers with their dash and 

trust! 
These old stage-drivers they have gone 

their ways 
But their deeds live on, though their bones 

are dust; 



LATER POEMS. 



231 



And many brave tales are told and retold 


An eagle swooped by. Hank saw its hooked 


Of these daring men in the days of old: 


beak; 




When, sudden out-popping a head snowy 


Of honest ;Hank Monk and his Tally- 
Ho, 
When he took good Horace in his stage to 


white — 
" Mr. Monk, I must lecture in Nevada to- 
night!" 


climb 




The high Sierras with their peaks of snow 


With just one thought that the mail 


And 'cross to Nevada, "and come in on 


must go through; 


time;" 


With just one word to the great, good 


But the canyon below was so deep— oh! 


man — 


so deep — 


But weary — so weary — the creaking stage 


And the summit above was so steep — oh! 


drew 


so steep! 


As only a weary old creaking stage can — 




When again shot the [head; came shriek- 




ing outright: 


The horses were foaming. The summit 


*' Mr. Monk, I must lecture in Nevada to- 


ahead 
Seemed as far as the stars on a still, clear 


night!" 


night. 




And steeper and steeper the narrow route 


Just then came the summit! And the 


led 


far world below. 


Till up to the peaks of perpetual white; 


It was Hank Monk's world. But he no 


But faithful Hank Monk, with his face to 


word spake; 


the snow, 


He pushed back his hat to that fierce peak 


Sat silent and stern on his Tally-Ho! 


of snow! 




He threw out his foot to the eagle and 




break ! 


Sat steady and still, sat faithful and 


He threw out his silk! He threw out his 


true 


reins! 


To the great, good man in his charge that 


And the great wheels reeled as if reeling 


day; 


snow skeins! 


Sat vowing the man and the mail should 




" go through 




On time " though he bursted both brace 


The eagle was lost in his crag up 


and stay; 


above! 


Sat silently vowing, in face of the snow, 


The horses flew swift as the swift light of 


He'd "get in on time " with his Tally- 


morn ! 


Ho! 


The mail must go through with its mes- 




sage of love, 




The miners were waiting his bright bugle 


But the way was so steep and so slow— 


horn. 


oh! so slow! 


The man must go through! And Monk 


'T was silver below, and the bright silver 


made a vow 


peak 


As he never had failed, why, he wouldn't 


Was silver above in its beaiaty and glow. 


fail now! 



232 



LATER POEMS. 



How his stage spun the pines like a far 

spider's web! 
It was spider and fly in the heavens up 

there! 
And the clanging of hoofs made the blood 

flow and ebb, 
For 'twas death in the breadth of a wheel 

or a hair. 
Once more popped the head, and the piping 

voice cried: 
"Mr. Monk! Mr. Monk!" But no Monk 

replied! 

Then the great stage it swung, as if 

swung from the sky; 
Then it dipped like a ship in the deep 

jaws of death; 
Then the good man he gasped as men gasp- 
ing for breath, 
When they deem it is coming their hour 

to die. 
And again shot the head, like a battering 

ram, 
And the face it was red, and the words 

they were hot: 
"Mr. Monk! Mr. Monk! I don't care a 

(mill?) dam. 
Whether I lecture in Nevada or not! " 



THAT FAITHFUL WIFE OF IDAHO. 

Huge silver snow-peaks, white as wool. 
Huge, sleek, fat steers knee deep in grass. 
And belly deep, and belly full, 
Their flower beds one fragrant mass 
Of flowers, grass tall-born and grand, 
Where flowers chase the flying snow! 
Oh, high held land in God's right hand, 
Delicious, dreamful Idaho! 



We rode the rolling cow-sown hills. 
That bearded cattle man and I; 
Below us laughed the blossomed rills, 



Above the dappled clouds blew by. 

We talked. The topic? Guess. Why, 

sir. 
Three-fourths of all men's time they 

keep 
To talk, to think, to be of her; 
The other fourth they give to sleep. 



To learn what he might know, or how, 
I laaghed all constancy to scorn. 
"Behold yon happy, changeful cow! 
Behold this day, all storm at morn. 
Yet now 'tis changed by cloud and sun, 
Yea, all things change — the heart, the 

head, 
Behold on earth there is not one 
That changeth not in love," I said. 

He drew a glass, as if to scan 
The steeps for steers; raised it and sighed. 
He craned his neck, this cattle man, 
Then drove the cork home and replied: 
"For twenty years (forgive these tears), 
For twenty years no word of strife — 
I have not known for twenty years 
One folly from my faithful wife." 



I looked that tarn man in the face — 
That dark-browed, bearded cattle man. 
He pulled his beard, then dropped in 

place 
A broad right hand, all scarred and tan. 
And toyed with something shining there 
Above his holster, bright and small. 
I was convinced. I did not care 
To agitate his mind at all. 

But rest I could not. Know I must 
The story of my stalwart guide; 
His dauntless love, enduring trust; 
His blessed and most wondrous bride. 
I wondered, marveled, marveled much; 
Was she of Western growth? Was she 



LATER POEMS. 



233 



Of Saxon blood, that wife with such 
Eternal truth and constancy? 

I could not rest until I knew — 
"Now twenty years, my man," I said, 
" Is a long time." He turned, he drew 
A pistol forth, also a sigh. 
'"Tis twenty years or more," sighed he. 
"Nay, nay, my honest man, I vow 
I do not doubt that this may be; 
But tell, oh! tell me truly how? " 

" 'Twould make a poem, pure and grand; 
All time should note it near and far; 
And thy fair, virgin, gold-sown land 
Should stand out like some winter star, 
America should heed. And then 
The doubtful French beyond the sea — 
'Twould make them truer, nobler men 
To know how this might truly be," 

'"Tis twenty years or more, urged he; 
"Nay, that I know, good guide of mine; 
But lead me where this wife may be. 
And I a pilgrim at a shrine, 
And kneeling as a pilgrim true" — 
He, leaning, shouted loud and clear: 
" I cannot show my wife to you; 
She's dead this more than twenty year." 



SAKATOGA AND THE PSALMIST. 

These famous waters smell like — well. 
Those Saratoga waters may 
Taste just a little of the day 
Of judgment; and the sulphur smell 
Suggests, along with other things, 
A climate rather warm for springs. 



But restful as a twilight song, 
The land where every lover hath 
A spring, and every spring a path 



To lead love pleasantly along. 

Oh, there be waters, not of springs — 

The waters wise King David sings. 

Sweet is the bread that lovers eat 
In secret, sang on harp of gold, 
Jerusalem's high king of old. 
" The stolen waters they are sweet!" 
Oh, dear, delicious piracies 
Of kisses upon love's high seas! 

The old traditions of our race 
Kepeat for aye and still repeat; 
The stolen waters still are sweet 
As when King David sat in place, 
All purple robed and crowned in gold, 
And sang his holy psalms of old. 

Oh, to escape the searching sun; 
To seek these waters over sweet; 
To see her dip her dimpled feet 
Where these delicious waters run — 
To dip her feet, nor slip nor fall. 
Nor stain her garment's hem at all: 

Nor soil the whiteness of her feet. 
Nor stain her whitest garment's hem — 
Oh, singer of Jerusalem, 
You sang so sweet, so wisely sweet! 
Shake hands! shake hands! I guess you 

knew 
For all your psalms, a thing or two. 



A TURKEY HUNT ON THE COLORADO 

(AS TOLD AT DINNER.) 

No, sir; no turkey for me, sir. But soft, 

place it there. 
Lest friends may make question and 

strangers may stare. 
Ah, the thought of that hunt in the cafion, 

the blood — 



234 



LATER POEMS. 



Nay, gently, please, gently! Yoii open a 
flood 

Of memories, memories melting me so 

That I rise in my place and — excuse me — 
I go. 

No? You must have the story? And you, 
lady fair? 

And you, and you all? Why, it's blood 
and despair; 

And 'twere not kind in me, not manly or 
wise 

To bring tears at such time to such beau- 
tiful eyes. 

I remember me now the last time I told 
This story a Persian iu diamonds and gold 
Sat next to good Gladstone, there was 

Wales to the right. 
Then a Duke, then an Earl, and such la- 
dies in white! 
But I stopped, sudden stopped, lest the 

story might start 
The blood freezing back to each feminine 

heart. 
But they all said, "The story!" just as 

you all have said, 
And the great Persian monarch he nodded 

his head 
Till his diamond-decked feathers fell, 

glittered and rose, 
Then nodded almost to his Ishmaelite 

nose. 



The story! Ah, pardon! 'Twas high 
Christmas tide 

And just beef and beans; yet the land, far 
and wide, 

Was alive with such turkeys of silver and 
gold 

As men never born to the north may be- 
hold. 

And Apaches? Aye, Apaches, and they 
took this game 

In a pen, tolled it in. Might not we do 
the same? 



So two of us started, strewing corn, Indian 

corn, 
Tow'rd a great granite gorge with the first 

flush of morn; 
Started gay, laughing back from the 

broad mesa's breast. 
At the bravest of men, who but warned for 

the best. 



We built a great pen from the sweet 

cedar wood 
Tumbled down from a crown where the 

sentry stars stood. 
Scarce done, when the turkeys in line — 

such a sight! 
Picking corn from the sand, russet gold, 

silver white. 
And so fat that they scarcely could waddle 

or hobble. 
And 'twas "Queek, tukee, queek," and 

'twas, " gobble and gobble! " 
And their great, full crops they did wabble 

and wabble 
As their bright, high heads they did bob, 

bow and bobble, 
Down, up, through the trench, crowding 

lip in the pen. 
Now, quick, block the trench! Then the 

mules and the men! 



Springing forth from our cove, guns 

leaned to a rock. 
How we laughed! What a feast! We had 

got the whole flock. 
How we worked till the trench was all 

blocked close and tight, 
For we hungered, and, too, the near coming 

of night. 
Then the thought of our welcome. The 

news? We could hear 
Already, we fancied, the great hearty 

cheer 
As we rushed into camp and exultingly 

told 



LATER POEMS. 



235 



Of the mule loads of turkeys iu silver and 

gold. 
Then we turned for our guns. Our guns? 

In their place 
Ten Apaches stood there, and five guns in 

each face. 



And we stood! we stood straight and 

stood strong, track solid to track. 
What, turn, try to fly and be shot in the 

back? 
No! We threw hats in the air. We 

should not need them more. 
And yelled! Yelled as never yelled man 

or Comanche before. 
We dared them, defied them, right there 

in their lair. 
Why, we leaned to their guns iu our 

splendid despair. 
What! spared us for bravery, because we 

dared death ? 
You know the tale? Tell it, and spare me 

my breath. 
No, sir. They killed us, killed us both, 

there and then, 
And then nailed our scalps to that turkey 

pen. 



THE CAPUCIN OF EOME. 

Only a basket for fruits or bread 
And the bits you divide with your dog, 

which you 
Had left from your dinner. The round 

year through 
He never once smiles. He bends his 

head 
To the scorn of men. He gives the road 
To the grave ass groaning beneath his 

load. 
He is ever alone. Lo! never a hand 
Is laid in his hand through the whole wide 

land, 



Save when a man dies, and he shrives 

him home. 
And that is the Capucin monk of Home. 

He coughs, he is hump'd, and he hob- 
bles about 
In sandals of wood. Then a hempen 

cord 
Girdles his loathsome gown. Abhorr'd! 
Ay, lonely, indeed, as a leper cast out. 
One gown iu three years! and — bah! how 

he smells! 
He slept last night in his coffin of stone, 
This monk that coiighs, this skin and 

bone. 
This living dead corpse from the damp, 

cold cells, — 
Go ye where the Piucian, half-level'd 

down, 
Slopes slow to the south. These men in 

brown 
Have a monkery there, quaint, builded of 

stone; 
And, living or dead, 'tis the brown men's 

home, — 
These dead brown monks who are living 

iu Eome! 



You will hear wood sandals on the 

sanded floor; 
A cough, then the lift of a latch, then the 

door 
Groans open, and — horror! Four walls of 

stone 
All gorgeous with flowers and frescoes of 

bone! 
There are bones in the corners and bones 

on the wall; 
And he barks like a dog that watches his 

bone, 
This monk in brown from his bed of 

stone — 
He barks, and he coughs, and that is all. 
At last he will cough as if up from his 

cell; 



236 



LATER POEMS. 



Then strut with considerable pride about, 
And lead through his blossoms of bone, 

and smell 
Their odors; then talk, as he points them 

out, 
Of the virtues and deeds of the gents who 

wore 
The respective bones but the year before. 

Then he thaws at last, ere the bones are 

through, 
And talks right well as he turns them 

about 
And stirs up a most unsavory smell; 
Yea, talks of his brown dead brothers, till 

you 
Wish them, as they are, no doubt, in — 

well, 
A very deep well.... And that may be 

why. 
As he shows you the door and bows good- 

by, 

That he bows so low for a franc or two, 
To shrive their souls and to get them out — 
These bony brown men who have their 

home. 
Dead or alive, in their cells at Kome. 

What good does he do in the world? 

Ah! well. 
Now that is a puzzler But, listen! He 

prays. 
His life is the fast of the forty days. 
He seeks the despised; he divides the 

bread 
That he begg'd on his knees, does this old 

shavehead. 
And then, when the thief and the beggar 

fell! 
And then, when the terrible plague came 

down, 
Christ! how we cried to these men in 

brown 
When other men fled! Ah, who then was 

seen 
Stand firm to the death like the Capucin ? 



SUNRISE IN VENICE. 

Night seems troiibled and scarce asleep; 
Her brows are gather'd as in broken rest. 
A star in the east starts up from the deep! 
'Tis morn, new-born, with a star on her 

breast, 
White as my lilies that grow in the West! 
Hist! men are passing me hurriedly. 
I see the yellow, wide wings of a bark, 
Sail silently over my morning star. 
I see men move in the moving dark, 
Tall and silent as columns are; 
Great, sinewy men that are good to see, 
With hair push'd back, and with open 

breasts; 
Barefooted fishermen, seeking their boats, 
Brown as walnuts, and hairy as goats, — 
Brave old water-dogs, wed to the sea. 
First to their labors and last to their rests. 



Ships are moving! I hear a horn, — 
Answers back, and again it calls. 
'Tis the sentinel boats that watch the town 
All night, as mounting her watery walls. 
And watching for pirate or smuggler. 

Down 
Over the sea, and reaching away. 
And against the east, a soft light falls, 
Silvery soft as the mist of morn. 
And I catch a breath like the breath of 

day. 



The east is blossoming! Yea, a rose. 
Vast as the heavens, soft as a kiss, 
Sweet as the presence of woman is, 
Rises and reaches, and widens and grows 
Large and luminous up from the sea. 
And out of the sea as a blossoming tree. 
Richer and richer, so higher and higher. 
Deeper and deeper it takes its hue; 
Brighter and brighter it reaches through 
The space of heaven to the place of stars. 
Then beams reach upward as arms, from 
the sea; 



LATER POEMS. 



237 



Theu lauces and arrows are aimed at me. 
Then lances and spangles and spars and 

bars 
Are broken and shiver'd and strown on the 

sea; 
And around and about me tower and spire 
Start from the billows like tongues of fire. 



COMO. 



The lakes lay bright as bits of broken 
moon 

Just newly set within the cloven earth; 

The ripeu'd fields drew round a golden 
girth 

Far up the steeps, and glittered in the 
noon; 

And when the sun fell down, from leafy 
shore 

Fond lovers stole in pairs to ply the oar; 

The stars, as large as lilies, fleck'd the blue; 

From out the Alps the moon came wheel- 
ing through 

The rocky pass the great Napoleon knew. 

A gala night it was, — the season's prime. 
We rode from castled lake to festal town, 
To fair Milan — my friend and I; rode 

down 
By night, where grasses waved in rippled 

rhyme: 
And so, what theme but love at such a 

time? 
His proud lip curl'd the while with silent 

scorn 
At thought of love; and theu, as one for- 
lorn. 
He sigh'd; then bared his temples, dash'd 

with gray; 
Theu mock'd, as one outworn and well 

blase. 

A gorgeous tiger lily, flaming red, — 
So full of battle, of the trumpets blare. 



Of old-time passion, uprear'd its head. 
I gallop'd past. I lean'd, I clutch'd it 

there 
From out the stormy grass. I held it 

high. 
And cried: "Lo! this to-night shall deck 

her hair 
Through all the dance. And mark! the 

man shall die 
Who dares assault, for good or ill design, 
The citadel where I shall set this sign." 



O, she shone fairer than the summer 

star. 
Or curl'd sweet moon in middle destiny; 
More fair than sun-morn climbing up the 

sea, 

Where all the loves of Adriana are 

Who loves, who truly loves, will stand 

aloof: 
The noisy tongue makes most unholy 

proof 

Of shallow passion All the while afar 

From out the dance I stood and watched 

my star. 
My tiger lily borne, an oriflamme of war. 



Adown the dance she moved with match- 
less grace. 
The world — my world — moved with her. 

Suddenly 
I question'd whom her cavalier might be? 
'Twas he! His face was leaning to her 

face! 
I clutch'd my blade; I sprang, I caught my 

breath, — 
And so, stood leaning cold and still as 

death. 
And they stood still. She blushed, theu 

reach'd and tore 
The lily as she pass'd, and down the 

floor 
She strew'd its heart like jets of gushing 

gore .... 



238 LATER 


POEMS. 


'Twas he said heads, not hearts, were 


On all these blossoms lifting 


made to break: 


Their blue eyes from below. 


He taught this that night in splendid 




scorn. 




I learn'd too well The dance was done. 


No, 'tis not phantoms walking 


ere morn 


That you hear rustling there. 


We mounted — he and I — but no more 


But bearded Druids talking. 


spake 


And turning leaves in prayer. 


And this for woman's love! My lily worn 


No, not a night-bird singing 


In her dark hair in pride, to then be torn 


Nor breeze the broad bough sioinging. 


And trampled on, for this bold stranger's 


But that bough holds a censer. 


sake! 


And swinns it to and fro. 


Two men rode silent back toward the lake; 


'Tis Simday eve, remember. 


Two men rode silent down — but only one 


That's why they chant so loiv. 


Kode up at morn to meet the rising sun. 






I linger in the autumn noon. 


The red-clad fishers row and creep 


I listen to the partridge call, 


Below the crags as half asleep, 


I watch the yellow leaflets fall 


Nor ever make a single sound. 


And drift adown the dimpled Doon. 


The walls are steep. 


I lean me o'er the ivy-grown 


The waves are deep; 


Auld brig, where Vandal tourists' tools 


And if a dead man should be found 


Have ribb'd out names that would be 


By these same fishers in their round, 


known. 


Why, who shall say but he was drown 'd ? 


Are known — known as a herd of fools. 




Down Ailsa Craig the sun declines, 




With lances level'd here and there — 


BUENS. 


The tinted thorns! the trailing vines! 




braes of Doon! so fond, so fair! 




So passing fair, so more than fond! 


Preceptu ! Poems ! Pages ! 


The Poet's place of birth beyond, 


Lessons ! Leaves, and Volumes ! 


Beyond the mellow bells of Ayr! 


Arches! Pillars! Columns 




In corridors of ages ! 


I hear the milk-maid's twilight song 


Grand patriarchal sages 


Come bravely through the storm-bent 


Lifting palms in prayer! 


oaks; 




Beyond, the white surf's sullen strokes 




Beat in a chorus deep and strong; 


The Druid beards are drifting 


I hear the sounding forge afar. 


And shifting to and fro. 


And rush and rumble of the car, 


In gentle breezes lifting. 


The steady tinkle of the bell 


That bat-like come and go. 


Of lazy, laden, home-bound cows 


The while the moon is sifting 


That stop to bellow and to browse; 


A sheen of shining snoio 


I breathe the soft sea-wind as well. 



\ 



LATER POEMS. 



239 



Burns! where bid? where bide ye 
uow? 
Where rest you in this night's full noon, 
Great master of the pen and plow? 
Might you not on yon slanting beam 
Of moonlight kneeling to the Doon, 
Descend once to this hallow'd stream? 
Sure yon stars yield enough of light 
For heaven to spare your face one night, 

Burns! another name for song, 
Another name for passion — pride; 
For love and poesy allied; 

For strangely blended right and wrong. 

1 picture you as one who kneel'd 
A stranger at his own hearthstone; 
One knowing all, yet all unknown, 
One seeing all, yet all conceal 'd; 
The fitful years you linger'd here 
A lease of peril and of pain; 

And I am thankful yet again 

The gods did love you, plowman! peer! 



In all your own and other lands, 
I hear your touching songs of cheer; 
The lowly peasant, lordly peer. 
Above your honor'd dust strike hands. 



A touch of tenderness is shown 
In this unselfish love of Ayr, 
And it is well, you earn'd it fair; 
For all unhelmeted, alone. 
You proved a plowman's honest claim 
To battle in the lists of fame; 
You earn'd it as a warrior earns 
His laurels fighting for his land. 
And died — it was your right to go. 



O eloquence of silent woe! 

The Master leaning, reach'd a hand, 

And whisper'd, "It is finish'd, Burns! " 

sad, sweet singer of a Spring! 
Yours was a chill, uncheerful May, 
And you knew no full days of June; 
You ran too swiftly up the way. 
And wearied soon, so over-soon! 
You sang in weariness and woe; 
You falter'd, and God heard you sing, 
Then touch'd your hand and led you so, 
You found life's hill-top low, so low, 
You cross'd its summit long ere noon. 
Thus sooner than one woiild suppose 
Some weary feet will find repose. 



BYEON.* 

In men ivhom men condemn as ill 
I Jind so much of goodness still, 
In men whom men ■pronounce divine 
I find so much 0/ sin and blot, 
I do not dare to draw a line 
Between the two, where God has not. 

O cold and cruel Nottingham! 
In disappointment and in tears. 
Sad, lost, and lonely, here I am 
To question, "Is this Nottingham, 
Of which I dream'd for years and years?" 
I seek in vain for name or sign 
Of him who made this mold a shrine, 
A Mecca to the fair and fond 
Beyond the seas, and still beyond. 

Where white clouds crush their droop' 
ing wings 



♦The little old church where Byron, with all his kindred, are buried, at Hucknall Tokard, Nottes, has been 
twice torn down and rebuilt since the above was written, although it had stood for centuries little better 
than a ruin. A wreath of bay was laid above his dust, from Ina D. Coolbrith. The vicar there protested. 
The matter was appealed to the Bishop. The Bishop answered by sending another wreath. Then the King 
of Greece sent a wreath. Then the rebuilding began. 



240 



LATER POEMS. 



Against my snow-crown'd battlements, 
And peaks that flash like silver tents; 
Where Sacramento's fountain springs, 
And proud Columbia frets his shore 
Of somber, boundless wood and wold, 
And lifts his yellow sands of gold 
In plaintive murmurs evermore; 
Where snowy dimpled Tahoe smiles, 
And where white breakers from the sea, 
In solid phalanx knee to knee, 
Surround the calm Pacific Isles, 
Then run and reach unto the land 
And spread their thin palms on the sand, — 
Is he supreme — there understood: 
The free can understand the free; 
The brave and good the brave and good. 

Tea, he did sin; who hath reveal'd 
That he was more than man, or less ? 
Yet sinn'd no more; but less conceal'd 
Than they who cloak'd their follies o'er, 
And then cast stones in his distress. 
He scorn'd to make the good seem more. 
Or make the bitter sin seem less. 
And so his very manliness 
The seeds of persecution bore. 

When all his songs and fervid love 
Brought back no olive branch or dove. 
Or love or trust from any one, 
Proud, all unpitied and alone 
He lived to make himself unknown. 
Disdaining love and yielding none. 
Like some high-lifted sea-girt stone 
That could not stooiJ, but all the days, 
With proud brow fronted to the breeze. 
Felt seas blown from the south, and seas 
Blown from the north, and many ways, 
He stood — a solitary light 
In stormy seas and settled night — 
Then fell, but stirr'd the seas as far 
As winds and waves and waters are. 

The meek-eyed stars are cold and white 
And steady, fix'd for all the years; 



The comet burns the wings of night, 
And dazzles elements and spheres, 
Then dies in beauty and a blaze 
Of light, blown far through other days. 

The poet's passion, sense of pride, 
His boundless love, the wooing throng 
Of sweet temptations that betide 
The warm and wayward child of song, 
The world knows not: I lift a hand 
To ye who know, who understand. 



The ancient Abbey's breast is broad, 
And stout her massive walls of stone; 
But let him lie, repose alone 
Ungather'd with the great of God, 
In dust, by his fierce fellow man. 
Some one, some day, loud voiced will 

speak 
And say the broad breast was not broad, 
The walls of stone were all too weak 
To hold the proud dust, in their plan; 
The hollow of God's great right hand 
Eeceives it; let it rest with God. 

In sad but beautiful decay 
Gray Hucknall kneels into the dust, 
And, cherishing her sacred trust, 
Does blend her clay with lordly clay. 

No sign or cryptic stone or cross 
Unto the passing world has said, 
" He died, and we deplore his loss." 
No sound of sandall'd pilgrims' tread 
Disturbs the pilgrim's peaceful rest. 
Or frets the proud, impatient breast. 
The bat flits through the broken pane, 
The black swift swallow gathers moss, 
And builds in peace above his head. 
Then goes, then comes, and builds again. 

And it is well; not otherwise 
Would he, the grand sad singer, will. 



LATER POEMS. 



241 



The serene peace of paradise 

He sought — 'tis his — the storm is still. 

Secure in his eternal fame, 

And blended pity and respect, 

He does not feel the cold neglect, 

And England does not fear the shame. 



ABOVE THE CLOUDS. 

'Mid white Sien-as, that slope to the sea. 
Lie turbulent lands. Go dwell in the 

skies, 
And the thundering tongues of Yosemite 
Shall persuade you to silence, and you 

shall be wise. 



I but sing for the love of song and the 

few 
Who loved me first and shall love me last; 
And the storm shall pass as the storms 

have pass'd. 
For never were clouds but the sun came 

through. 



A CALIFOKNIA CHRISTMAS. 

Behold where Beauty walks with Peace! 
Behold where Plenty pours her horn 
Of fruits, of flowers, fat increase, 
As generous as light of morn. 

Green Shasta, San Diego, seas 
Of bloom and green between them rolled. 
Great herds in grasses to their knees, 
And green earth garmented in gold. 

White peaks that prop the sapphire blue 
Look down on Edens, such as when 
That fair, first spot perfection knew 
And God walked perfect earth with men. 

I say God's kingdom is at hand 
Eight here, if we but lift our eyes; 



I say there lies no line or land 
Between this land and Paradise. 



THANKSGIVING, 1896. 

Thank God for high, white holy Truth, 
To feed the world instead of sham; 
Lo, laden, patient, lowly Euth! 
Lo, Abram's sacrificial ram! 
Thank God for Abram's faith of old; 
Thank God for man's faith in God's plan. 
But thank God most — and manifold 
For man's great, growing faith in man. 



We round up, up; round on and on, 
As rounding eagles rise and rise! 
The darkest hour ushers dawn. 
And dawn is dashing up the skies! 
Thank God for light, God's face is light; 
The light of Truth, of faith in kind— 
The light of Love, the light of Eight, 
The blind no more may lead the blind! 



Just Truth and Faith and steady Light, 
And mad sensation is no more; 
The fakir folds his tent of night 
And finds his dim Plutonian shore. 
The people live, the people love. 
The people are once more divine: 
Put forth thy hand, receive the dove. 
Descend and taste the corn and wine. 



Thank God so much for laden Euth, 
For plenty poured from pole to pole; 
But thank God most for Faith and Truth, 
For meats that feed the famished soul: 
For light wherewith to know to feed. 
For Light, for God's face far and near; 
For love that knows not lust nor greed, 
For faiih that calmly smiles at fear. 



242 



LATER POEMS. 



«'49."* 

We have worked our claims, 
We have spent our gold, 
Our barks are astrand on the bars; 
We are battered and old. 
Yet at night we behold, 
Outcroppings of gold in the stars. 

Choruh — Tho' battered and old, 
Our hearts are bold, 
Yet oft do we repine; 
For the days of old. 
For the days of gold, 
For the days of forty-nine. 

Where the rabbits play, 
Where the quail all day 
Pipe on the chaparral hill; 
A few more days. 
And the last of us lays 
His pick aside and all is still. 
Chorus — 

We are wreck and stray, 
We are cast away. 
Poor battered old hulks and spars; 
But we hope and pray, 
On the judgment day. 
We shall strike it up in the stars. 
Chorus — 



BATTLES. 

Nay, not for fame, but for the Eight; 
To make this fair world fairer still. 
Or lordly lily of a night. 
Or sun-topped tower of a hill, 
Or high or low, or near or far, 
Or dull or keen, or bright or dim, 



Or blade of glass, or brightest star. 
All, all are but the same to Him. 

O pity of the strife for place; 
O pity of the strife for power; 
How scarred, how marred a mountain's 

face; 
How fair the fair face of a flower. 
The blade of grass beneath your feet. 
The bravest sword: ay, braver far, 
To do and die in mute defeat, 
Thou bravest Conqueror of war. 

When I am dead say this, but this. 
He grasped at no man's blade or shield. 
Or banner bore, but helmetless. 
Alone, unknown, he held the field; 
He held the field with saber drawn, 
Where God had set him in the fight; 
He held the field, fought on and on, 
And so fell fighting for the Eight. 



SAN DIEGO. 

•' for a beaker 0/ the inarm South; 
The true, the blushful hypocrine.'" 

What shall be said of the sun-born 

Pueblo ? 
This town sudden born in the path of the 

sun? 
This town of St. James, of the calm San 

Diego, 
As suddenly born as if shot from a gun? 

Why, speak of her warmly; why, write 
her name down 
As softer than sunlight, as warmer than 
wine ! 



♦This poem is taken from "'49, or the Gold Seekers," by permission of Funk & WagnaUs, New York, 
pubUshers of the book. The words have been set to music and selected as the Song of the Native Sons of Cali- 
fornia. It was sung in Mining Camps long before it was in print. They are my first lines that have lived, but 
are much altered from the original. 



LATER POEMS. 



243 



Why speak of her bravely; this ultimate 
town 

With feet in the foam of the vast Argen- 
tine: 



The vast argent seas of the Aztec, of 

Cortez! 
The boundless white border of battle-torn 

lands — 
The fall of Napoleon, the rise of red 

Juarez — 
The footfalls of nations are heard on her 

sands. 



PIONEERS TO THE GEEAT EMERALD 
LAND. 

READ AT PORTLAND, 1896. 

Emerald, emerald, emerald Land; 
Land of the sun mists, land of the sea, 
Stately and stainless and storied and grand 
As cloud-mantled Hood in white majesty — 
Mother of States, we are worn, we are 

gray- 
Mother of men, we are going away. 



Mother of States, tall mother of men. 
Of cities, of churches, of homes, of sweet 

rest. 
We are going away, we must journey 

again. 
As of old we journeyed to the vast, far 

West. 
We tent by the river, our feet once more, 
Please God, are set for the ultimate shore. 



Mother, white mother, white Oregon 
In emerald kilt, with star-set crown 
Of sapphire, say is it night? Is it dawn? 
Say what of the night? Is it well up 
and down? 



We are going away From yon high 

watch tower, 
Young men, strong men, say, what of the 

hour? 



Young men, strong men, there is work 

to be done; 
Faith to be cherished, battles to fight, 
Victories won were never well won 
Save fearlessly won for God and the right. 
These cities, these homes, sweet peace 

and her spell 
Be ashes, but ashes, with the infidel. 



Have Faith, such Faith as your fathers 

knew. 
All else must follow if you have but Faith. 
Be true to their Faith, and you must be 

true. 
"Lo! I will be with you," the Master 

saith. 
Good by, dawn breaks; it is coming full 

day 
And one by one we strike tent and away. 

Good by. Slow folding our snow- 
white tents. 
Our dim eyes lift to the farther shore, 
And never these riddled, gray regiments 
Shall answer full roll-call any more. 
Yet never a doubt, nay, never a fear 
Of old, or now, knew the Pioneer. 



ALASKA. 

Ice built, ice bound and ice bounded, 
Such cold seas of silence! such room! 
Such snow-light, such sea light confounded 
With thunders that smite like a doom! 
Such grandeur! such glory! such gloom! 
Hear that boom! Hear that deep distant 
boom 



244 



LATER POEMS. 



Of an avalanche hurled 
Down this unSuished world! 

Ice seas! and ice summits! ice spaces 
In splendor of white, as God's throne! 
Ice worlds to the pole! and ice places 
Untracked, and unnamed, and unknown! 
Hear that boom! Hear the grinding, the 

groan 
Of the ice-gods in pain! Hear the moan 
Of yon ice mountain hurled 
Down this unfinished world. 



"THE FOURTH" IN OREGON.* 

Hail, Independence of old ways! 
Old worlds! The West declares the West, 
Her storied ways, her gloried days, 
Because the West deserveth best. 
This new, true land of noblest deeds 
Has rights, has sacred rights and needs. 

Sing, ye who may, this natal day; 
Of dauntless thought, of men of might, 



In lesser lands and far away. 
But truth is truth and right is right. 
And, oh, to sing like sounding flood, 
These boundless boundaries writ in blood! 



Three thousand miles of battle deeds. 
Of burning Moscows, Cossacks, snows; 
Then years and years of British greed, 
Of grasping greed; of lurking foes. 
I say no story ever writ 
Or said, or sung, surpasses it! 



And who has honored us, and who 
Has bravely dared stand up and say; 
"Give ye to Csesar Caesar's due?" 
Unpaid, unpensioned, mute and gray, 
Some few survivors of the brave, 
Still hold enough land for a grave. 



How much they dared, how much they 
won — 
Why, o'er your banner of bright stars, 
Their star should be the blazing sun 
Above the battle star of Mars. 



* This poem was read, 1896, near the scene of the Whitman massacre at the old Mission. The story of Ore- 
gon— .4 ure il Agtta; Hear the Waters— glowing with great deeds, drama, tragedy, smrpassing anything in the history 
of any other State, east or west, old or new. When the paw of the British lion reached down from Canada and laid 
heavy hand on Oregon, these pioneers met under their great firs and proclaimed to the world that they were not 
British subjects, but American citizens. Marcus P Whitman mounted horse in midwinter and set out alone and 
rode 3,000 miles to lay the facts before the President. Yet the Government never lifted a hand to help save Oregon 
to the Nation So far from that, a Senator rose in his place and literally denounced all efiEort in that direction, 
saying "I would to God we had never heard of that country; we do not want a foot of ground on the Pacific 
Ocean." Webster was hardly less cruel. But undaunted. Whitman gathered up hundreds of wagons and led back 
to Oregon; the first that ever crossed the plains. He saved Oregon, but lost his life and all his house. Then the 
pioneers, to avenge the massacre, declared war on their own account, fought it to a finish without so much as a 
single man or gun from the Government, made peace on their own account, and then went to work and dug their 
own gold from their own ground, and with their own hands coined it and paid their war debts and from the first 
kept their paper with its face in virgin gold. The coins, virgin gold with a sheaf of wheat on one side, showing the 
richness of the soil, and a beaver on the reverse, typifying the industry of the people. Oregon is the only division 
of this republic that ever coined gold under authority of law. And even in later Indian wars Oregon was always 
treated meanly, most meanly. More than once every man and boy who could carry a gun or drive a team was in 
the field. My father and his three sons, aged ten, twelve, and fourteen, were all at one time teamsters in a supply 
train And the Government paid for services and supplies but tardily, if at all. The meanness is incredible. 
There are millions still due Oregon. No, I am not angry, or selfish either; I never received or claimed one cent fo 
services, supplies or losses. But some of these old pioneers are in need now, and it makes a man blush for his 
country to see them so meanly treated even to the last. 



LATER POEMS. 



24s 



Here, here beside brave "Whitman's dust, 
Let us be bravely, frankly just. 

The mountains from the first were so. 
The mountains from the first were free. 
They ever laid the tyrant low, 
And kept the boon of liberty. 
The levels of the earth alone 
Endured the tyrant, bore the throne. 



The levels of the earth alone 
Bore Sodoms, Babylons of crime, 
And all sad cities overthrown 
Along the surging surf of time. 
The coward, slave, creeps in the fen: 
God's mountains only cradle men. 

Aye, wise and great was Washington, 
And brave the men of Bunker Hill; 
Most brave and worthy every one, 
In work and faith and fearless will 
And brave endeavor for the right. 
Until yon stare burst through their night. 

Aye, wise and good was Washington. 
Yet when he laid his sword aside. 
The bravest deed yet done was done. 
And when in stately strength and pride 
He took the plow and turned the mold 
He wrote God's autograph in gold. 

He wrought the fabled fleece of gold 
In priceless victories of peace, 
With plowshare set in mother mold; 
Then gathering the golden fleece 
About his manly, martial breast. 
This farmer laid him down to rest. 



0! this was godlike! And yet, who 
Of all men gathered here to-day 
Has not drawn sword as swift as true, 
Then laid its reddened edge away, 



And took the plow, and turned the mold 
To sow yon sunny steeps with gold. 



Aye, this true valor! Sing who will 
Of battle charge, of banners borne 
Triumphant up the blazing hill 
On battle's front, of banners torn, 
Of horse and rider torn and rent, 
Bed regiment on regiment. 

Yet this were boy's play to that man 
Who, far out yonder lone frontier. 
With wife and babe fought in the van. 
Fought on, fought on, year after year. 
No brave, bright flag to cheer the brave. 
No farewell gun above his grave. 

I say such silent pioneers 
Who here set plowshare to the sun, 
And silent gave their sunless years, 
Were kings of heroes every one. 
No Brandywiue, no Waterloo 
E'er knew one hero half so true! 



A nation's honor for our dead, 
God's pity for the stifled pain; 
And tears as ever woman shed. 
Sweet woman's tears for maimed or slain. 
But man's tears for the mute, unknown, 
Who fights alone, who falls alone. 



The very bravest of the brave. 
The hero of all lands to me ? 
Far up yon yellow lifting wave 
His brave ship cleaves the golden sea. 
And gold or gain, or never gain. 
No argosy sails there in vain. 



And who the coward? Hessian he. 
Who turns his back ui^on the field. 
Who wears the slavish livery 
Of town or city, sells his shield 



246 



LATER POEMS. 



Of honor, as his ilk of old 

Sold body, soul, for British gold. 

My heroes, comrades of the field, 
Content ye here; here God to yon. 
Whatever fate or change may yield. 
Has been most generous and true. 
Ton everlasting snow-peaks stand 
His sentinels about this land. 

Yon bastions of God's house are white 
As heaven's porch with heaven's peace. 
Behold His portals bathed in light! 
Behold at hand the golden fleece! 
Behold the fatness of the land 
On every hill, on every hand! 

Ton bannered snow-peaks point and 
plead 
God's upward path, God's upward plan 
Of peace, God's everlasting creed 
Of love and brotherhood of man. 
Thou mantled magistrates in white. 
Give us His light! Give us His light! 



AN ANS'SVER. 

Well! who shall lay hand on my hai-p 

but me. 
Or shall chide my song from the sounding 

trees ? 
The passionate sun and the resolute sea, 
These were my masters, and only these. 

These were my masters, and only these, 
And these from the first I obey'd, and they 
Shall command me now, and I shall obey 
As a dutiful child that is proud to please. 

There never were measures as true as 
the sun, 
The sea hath a song that is passingly 
sweet, 



And yet they repeat, and repeat, and repeat, 
The same old runes though the new years 
run. 



By unnamed rivers of the Oregon north. 
That roll dark-heaved into turbulent hills, 
I have made my home The wild 

heart thrills 
With memories fierce, and a world storms 

forth. 



On eminent peaks that are dark with 
pine. 

And mantled in shadows and voiced in 
storms, 

I have made my camps: majestic gray 
forms 

Of the thunder-clouds, they were compan- 
ions of mine; 



And face set to face, like to lords aus- 
tere. 
Have we talk'd, red-tongued, of the mys- 
teries 
Of the circling sun, of the oracled seas. 
While ye who judged me had mantled in 
fear. 



Some fragment of thought in the unfin- 
ish'd words; 

A cry of fierce freedom, and I claim no 
more. 

What more would you have from the ten- 
der of herds 

And of horse on an ultimate Oregon shore? 



From men unto God go forth, as alone, 
Where the dark pines talk in their tones 

of the sea 
To the unseen God in a harmony 
Of the under seas, and know the un- 
known. 



LATER POEMS. 



247 



'Mid white Sierras, that slope to the sea. 
Lie turbulent lands. Go dwell in the 

skies, 
And the thundering tongues of Tosemite 
Shall persuade you to silence, and you 
shall be wise. 



Tea, men may deride, and the thing it is 

well; 
Turn well and aside from the one wild 

note 
To the song of the bird with the tame, 

sweet throat; 
But the sea sings on in his cave and shell. 

Let the white moons ride, let the red 

stars fall, 
O great, sweet sea! O fearful and sweet! 
Thy songs they repeat, and repeat, and 

repeat : 
And these, I say, shall survive us all. 



TOSEMITE. 

Sound! sound! sound! 
O colossal walls and crown'd 
In one eternal thunder! 
Sound! sound! sound! 
O ye oceans overhead. 
While we walk, subdued in wonder, 
In the ferns and grasses, under 
And beside the swift Merced! 



Fret! fret! fret! 
Streaming, sounding banners, set 
On the giant granite castles 
In the clouds and in the snow! 
But the foe he comes not yet, — 
We are loyal, valiant vassals, 
And we touch the trailing tassels 
Of the banners far below. 



Surge! surge! surge! 
From the white Sierra's verge, 
To the very valley blossom. 
Surge! surge! surge! 
Tet the song-bird builds a home, 
And the mossy branches cross them, 
And the tasselled tree-tops toss them, 
In the clouds of falling foam. 

Sweep! sweep! sweep! 
O ye heaven-born and deep. 
In one dread, unbroken chorus! 
We may wonder or may weep, — 
We may wait on God before us; 
We may shout or lift a hand, — 
We may bow down and deplore us, 
But may never understand. 

Beat! beat! beat! 
We advance, but would retreat 
From this restless, broken breast 
Of the earth in a convulsion. 
We would rest, but dare not rest, 
For the angel of expulsion 
From this Paradise below 
Waves us onward and we go. 



DEAD IN THE SIEEKAS. 

His footprints have failed us, 
Where berries are red. 
And madronos are rankest, 
The hunter is dead! 



The grizzly may pass 
By his half-open door; 
May pass and repass 
On his path, as of yore; 

The panther may crouch 
In the leaves on his limb; 
May scream and may scream. 
It is nothing to him. 



248 LATER 


POEMS. 


Prone, bearded, and breasted 


Of heart that held beyond the tomb to 


Like columns of stone; 


heart. 


And tall as a pine — 


But oh, it tells of love! And that true 


As a pine overthrown! 


page 




Is more in this cold, hard, commercial 


His camp-fires gone, 


age, 
When love is calmly counted some lost 


What else can be done 


art. 


Than let him sleep on 


Than all man's mighty monuments of war 


Till the light of the sun? 


Or archives vast of art and science are. 


Ay, tombless! what of it? 


III. 


Marble is dust. 




Cold and repellent; 


Here poets pause and dream a listless 


And iron is rust. 


hour; 




Here silly pilgrims stoop and kiss the 




clay, 




Here sweetest maidens leave a cross or 




flower. 


IN PEEE LA CHAISE. 


While vandals bear the tomb in bits away. 




The ancient stone is scarred with name 


I. 


and scrawl 


An avenue of tombs! I stand before 


Of many tender fools. But over all. 


The tomb of Abelard and Eloise. 


And high above all other scrawls, is writ 


A long, a dark bent line of cypress trees 


One simple thing; most touching and most 


Leads past and on to other shrinesj but 


fit. 


o'er 


Some pitj'ing soul has tiptoed high above, 


This tomb the boughs hang darkest and 


And with a nail has scrawled but this: 


most dense, 


"OLove!" 


Like leaning mourners clad in black. The 




sense 


IV. 


Of awe oppresses you. This solitude 


OLove! I turn; I climb the hill of 


Means more than common sorrow. Down 


tombs 


the wood 


Where sleeps the "bravest of the brave," 


Still lovers pass, then pause, then turn 


below, 


again. 


His bed of scarlet blooms in zone of 


And weep like silent, unobtrusive rain. 


snow — 




No cross, nor sign, save this red bed of 


II. 


blooms. 




I see grand tombs to France's lesser dead, — 


'Tis but a simple, antique tomb, that 


Colossal steeds, white pyramids, still red 


kneels 


At base with blood, still torn with shot 


As one that weeps above the broken clay. 


and shell. 


'Tis stained with storms; 'tis eaten well 


To testify that here the Commune fell; 


away. 


And yet I turn once more from all of these, 


Nor half the old — new story now reveals 


And stand before the tomb of Eloise. 



LATER POEMS. 



249 



KOME. 



Some leveled hills, a wall, a dome 
That lords its gilded arch and lies. 
While at its base a beggar cries 
For bread, aud this — and that is Rome. 



Yet Eome is Eome, and Eome she must 
And shall remain beside her gates. 
And tribute take of Kings and States, 
Until the stars have fallen to dust. 



Yea, Time on yon Campagnan plain 
Has pitched in siege his battle-tents; 
And round about her battlements 
Has marched aud trumpeted in vain. 



These skies are Eome! The very loam 
Lifts up and speaks in Eoman pride; 
Aud Time, outfaced and still defied. 
Sits by and wags his beard at Eome. 



"POVEEIS! POVEEIS!" 

'^ Feed my sheep." 

Come, let us ponder; it is fit — 
Born of the poor, born to the poor. 
The poor of purse, the poor of wit. 
Were first to find God's opened door — 
Were first to climb the ladder round by 

round 
That fell from heaven's door unto the 

ground. 



God's poor came first, the very first! 
God's poor were first to see, to hear, 



To feel the light of heaven burst 
Full on their faces. Far or near. 
His poor were first to follow, first to fall! 
What if at last his poor stand forth the 
first of all? 



AMEEICA TO AMEEICANS. 

Behold America! my land. 
Unarmed, unharmed, whilst Europe groans 
With weight of arms on either hand. 
And hears a starving woman's moans. 

My land that feeds, that leads the world. 
Where dwells more strength in one small 

star 
Of her brave, beaiiteous flag unfurled 
Than all their armaments of war. 



My land, where man first knew his 
strength — 
His strength of right, his fearful might; 
His fearful, tawny, tiger-length 
Of arm in battle for the right. 

My land that shook from off her shores 
A thousand British battle ships — 
As when some lion wakes and roars 
And walks the world and licks his lips! 

My land that sows the world with gold. 
That taught old worlds in lightning 

tongue, 
That leads the old, that feeds the old, 
And yet so young, so very young! 

My land that reaches kindly, fair, 
For cactus spear, for maj^le leaf, 
As peaceful, loving harvester 
Would gather sheaf to golden sheaf. 

Come maple leaf, come stalwart man 
Of stout and sterling Canada; 



250 



LATER POEMS. 



Come cactus spear, come Darien- 
To-morrow, if not yet to-day. 



One flag for all, or far or near, 
One faith for all whate'er befall — 
Or maple leaf, or cactus spear, 
One star-built banner, built for all. 



FATHEE DAMIEN OF HAWAII. 

The best of all heroes that ever may be, 
The best and the bravest in peace or in 

war 
Since that lorn sad night in Gethsemane — 
Horns of the moon or the five-horned 

star? 
Why, merely a Belgian monk, and the 

least, 
The lowliest — merely a peasant-born 

priest. 



And how did he fight ? And where did 

he fall ? 
With what did he conquer in the name of 

God? 
The cross! And he conquered more souls 

than all 
Famed captains that ever fought fire-shod. 
Now, lord of the sapphire-set sea and 

skies, 
Far under his Southern gold Cross he 

lies. 



Far under the fire-sown path of the sun 
He sleeps with his lepers; but a world is 

his! 
His great seas chorus and his warm tides 

run 
To dulcet and liquid soft cadences. 
And, glories to come or great deeds gone, 
I'd rather be he than Napoleon. 



He rests with his lepers, for whom h^ 

died; 
The lorn outcasts in their cooped up isle, 
While Slander purses her lips in pride 
And proud men gather their robes and 

smile. 
They mock at his deeds in their daily talk. 
Deriding his work in their Christian (?) 

walk. 



But the great wide, honest, the wise, big 

world; 
Or sapiihire splendors or midnight sun. 
It is asking the while that proud lips are 

curled, 
Why do not ye as that monk hath done? 
Why do not ye, if so braver than he, 
Some one brave deed that the world might 

see? 



AT OUK GOLDEN GATE. 

At our gate he groaneth, groaneth. 
Chafes as chained, and chafes all day; 
As leashed greyhound moaneth, moaneth. 
When the master keeps away. 
Men have seen him steal in lowly, 
Lick the island's feet and face. 
Lift a cold wet nose up slowly. 
Then turn empty to his place: 
Em-pty, idle, hungered, waiting 
For some hero, dauntless-souled, 
Glory-loving, pleasure-hating. 
Minted in God's ancient mold. 



What ship yonder stealing, stealing, 
Pirate-like, as if ashamed ? 
Black men, brown men, red, revealing- 
Not one white man to be named! 
What flag yonder, proud, defiant. 
Topmast, saucy, and sea blown? 
Tall ships lordly and reliant — 
All flags yonder save our own! 
Surged atop yon half-world water 



LATER POEMS. 



251 



Once a tnneful tall ship ran; 

Ean the storm king, too, and caught her, 

Caught and laughed as laughs a man: 

Laughed and held her, and so holden, 
Holden high, foam-crest and free 
As famed harper, hoar and olden. 
Held his great harp on his knee. 
Then his fingers wildly flinging 
Thi-ough chords, ropes — such symphony 
As if some wild Wagner singing — 
Some wild Wagner of the sea! 
Sang he of such poor cowed weaklings, 
Cowed, weak landsmen such as we. 
While ten thousand storied sea kings 
Foam-white, storm-blown, sat the sea. 

Oh, for England's old sea thunder! 
Oh, for England's bold sea men. 
When we banged her over, under 
And she banged us back again! 
Better old time strife and stresses. 
Cloud top't towers, walls, distrust; 
Better wars than lazinesses. 
Better loot than wine and lust! 
Give us seas? Why, we have oceans! 
Give us manhood, sea men, men! 
Give us deeds, loves, hates, emotions! 
Else give back these seas again. 



THE VOICE OF THE DOVE.* 

Come, listen O Love to the voice of the 

dove, 
Come, hearken and hear him say 
There are many To-morrows, my Love, 

my Love, 
There is only one To-day. 



And all day long you can hear him say 
This day in purple is rolled 
And the baby stars of the milkyway 
They are cradled in cradles of gold. 

Now what is thy secret serene gray dove 

Of singing so sweetly alway? 

"There are many To-morrows, my Love, 

my Love, 
There is only one To-day." 



WASHINGTON BY THE DELAWAKE. 

The snow was red with patriot blood. 
The proud foe tracked the blood-red snow. 
The flying patriots crossed the flood 
A tattered, shattered band of woe. 
Forlorn each barefoot hero stood. 
With bare head bended low. 

"Let us cross back! Death waits us 
here: 
Kecross or die!" the chieftain said. 
A famished soldier dropped a tear — 
A tear that froze as it was shed: 
For oh, his starving babes were dear — 
They had but this for bread! 

A captain spake: "It cannot be! 
These bleeding men, why, what could 

they? 
'Twould be as snowflakes in a sea!" 
The worn chief did not heed or say. 
He set his firm lips silently. 
Then turned aside to pray. 

And as he kneeled and prayed to God, 
God's finger spun the stars in space; 



* Taken from "The Building of the Cicy Beautiful," by pennission of the publishers, Stone and Kimball, 
Chicago and Cambridge. 1 can commend this little book to my lovers. It was first written in verse as The Life of 
Christ. But when Sir Edwin Arnold's " Light of the World " appeared I saw that he, by help of his knowledge of 
the Orient, had gone deeper than I could, so I destroyed all but about twenty fragments, heads of chapters, and 
wrote the rest of the book in prose. It is, in the main, the Story of the Hights. 



252 



LATER POEMS. 



He spread his banner blue and broad, 
He dashed the dead sun's stripes in place, 
Till war walked heaven fire shod 
And lit the chieftain's face: 

Till every soldier's heart was stirred, 
Till every sword shook in its sheath — 
" Up! up! Face back. But not one word!" 
God's flag above; the ice beneath — 
They crossed so still, they only heard 
The icebergs grind their teeth! 

Ho! Hessians, hirelings at meat 
While praying patriots hunger so! 
Then, bang! Boom! Bang! Death and 

defeat! 
And blood? Ay, blood upon the snow! 
Yet not the blood of patriotic feet. 
But heart's blood of the foe! 



O ye who hunger and despair! 
O ye who perish for the sun, 
Look up and dare, for God is there; 
And man can do what man has done! 
Think, think of darkling Delaware! 
Think, think of Washington! 



rOK THOSE WHO FAIL.* 

"All honor to him who shall win the 

prize," 
The world has cried for a thousand years; 
But to him who tries, and who fails and 

dies, 
I give great honor and glory and tears : 

Give glory and honor and pitiful tears 
To all who fail in their deeds sublime; 
Their ghosts are many in the van of years, 



They were born with Time, in advance of 
Time. 



Oh, great is the hero who wins a name, 
But greater many and many a time 
Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame. 
And lets God finish the thought sublime. 



And great is the man with a sword un- 
drawn. 

And good is the man who refrains from 
wine; 

But the man who fails and yet still fights 
on, 

Lo, he is the twin-born brother of mine. 



THE LIGHT OF CHKIST'S FACE. 

Behold how glorious! Behold 
The light of Christ's face; and such light! 
The Moslem, Buddhist, as of old. 
Gropes helpless on in hopeless night. 
But lo! where Christ comes, crowned with 

flame. 
Ten thousand triumphs in Christ's name. 
Ten thousand triumphs in Christ's name. 
But lo! where Christ comes crowned with 

flame. 
Ten thousand triumphs in Christ's name, 
Ten thousand triumphs in Christ's name. 



Elijah's chariot of fire 
Chained lightnings harnessed to his car! 
Jove's thunders bridled by a wire — 
Call unto nations "here we are!" 
Lo! all the world one sea of light, 
Save where the Paynim walks in night, 
Lo, all the world one sea of light, 
Lo, all the world one sea of light, 



* From " Memorie and Rime." by permission of Funk & Wagnalls, publishers of the Standard Dictionary and 
the Standard Library, of which the above book is one. 



LATER POEMS. 



253 



Save where the Paj'nim walks in night, 
Lo, all the world one sea of light. 

What more? What sermons like to 
these; 
This light of Christ's face, power, speed, 
In these full rounded centuries, 
To prove the Christ, the Christ in deed ? 
Yea, Christ is life, and Christ is light. 
And anti-Christ is death and night, 
Yea, Christ is life, and Christ is light. 
Yea, Christ is life, and Christ is light, 
And anti-Christ is death and night. 
Yea Christ is life, and Christ is light. 



COLUMBUS. 

Behind him lay the gray Azores, 
Behind the Gates of Hercules; 
Before him not the ghost of shores; 
Before him only shoreless seas. 
The good mate said: "Now must we pray. 
For lo! the very stars are gone. 
Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?" 
"Why, say: ' Sail on! sail on! and on!' " 

" My men grow mutinous day by day; 
My men grow ghastly wan and weak." 
The stout mate thought of home; a spray 
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 
" What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say, 
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" 
" Why, you shall say at break of day: 
'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'" 



They sailed and sailed, as winds might 
blow. 
Until at last the blanched mate said: 
" Why, now not even God would know 
Should I and all my men fall dead. 
These very winds forget their way. 
For God from these dread seas is gone. 



Now speak, brave Adm'r'l; speak and 

say " 

He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!" 

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake 
the mate: 
" This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. 
He curls his lip, he lies in wait. 
With lifted teeth, as if to bite! 
Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word: 
What shall we do when hope is gone?" 
The words leapt like a leaping sword: 
" Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!" 



Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, 
And peered through darkness. Ah, that 

night 
Of all dark nights! And then a speck — 
Alight! Alight! Alight! Alight! 
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! 
It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
He gained a world; he gave that world 
Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!" 



CUBA LIBKE. 

Comes a cry from Cuban water — 
From the warm, dusk Antilles — 
From the lost Atlanta's daughter. 
Drowned in blood as drowned in seas; 
Comes a cry of purpled anguish — 
See her struggles, hear her cries! 
Shall she live, or shall she languish? 
Shall she sink, or shall she rise ? 

She shall rise, by all that's holy! 
She shall live and she shall last; 
Rise as we, when crushed and lowly 
From the blackness of the past. 
Bid her strike! Lo, it is written 
Blood for blood and life for life. 
Bid her smite, as she is smitten; 
Stars and stripes were born of strife. 



254 



LATER POEMS. 



Once we flashed her lights of freedom, 
Lights that dazzled her dark eyes 
Till she could but yearning heed them, 
Keach her hands and try to rise. 
Then they stabbed her, choked her, 

drowned her, 
Till we scarce could hear a note. 
Ah! these rusting chains that bound her! 
Oh! these robbers at her throat! 



And the kind who forged these fetters ? 
Ask five hundred years for news. 
Stake and thumbscrew for their betters ? 
Inquisitions! Banished Jews! 
Chains and slavery! What reminder 
Of one red man in that land? 
Why, these very chains that bind her 
Bound Columbus, foot and hand! 

She shall rise as rose Columbus, 
From his chains, from shame and wrong — 
Kise as Morning, matchless, wondrous — 
Else as some rich morning song — 
Kise a ringing song and story. 
Valor, Love personified. 
Stars and stripes espouse her glory, 
Love and Liberty allied. 



FINALE. 

When ye have conned the hundredth 
time 
My sins and sagely magnified 
"Your ofttold fictions into crimes 
Dark planned, and so turned all aside. 
Why then have done, I beg, I pray. 
These shadows ye have fashioned lie 
So heavily along my way. 
And I would fain have light: And I 



Would fain have love: Have love one 

little hour 
Ere God has plucked my day, a tearful 

flower. 

But when the cloud-draped day is done, 
Now happily not long for me, 
For lo! I see no more the sun. 
Say this, if say ye must, and see 
That ye mouth not the simple truth: 
" From first to last this man had naught 
Of us but insolence. From youth 
Eight on, alone he silent wrought 
Nor answered us. And yet from us he 

knew 
But thrust of lance that thrust him 

through and through." 

Ah me! I mind me long agone, 
Once on a savage snow-bound height 
We pigmies pierced a king. Upon 
His bare and upreared breast till night 
We rained red arrows and we rained 
Hot lead. Then up the steep and slow 
He passed; yet ever still disdained 
To strike, or even look below. 
We found him, high above the clouds 

next morn 
And dead, in all his silent, splendid 

scorn. 

So leave me, as the edge of night 
Comes on a little time to pass. 
Or pray. For steep the stony height 
And torn by storm, and bare of grass 
Or blossom. And when I lie dead 
Oh, do not drag me down once more. 
For Jesus' sake let my poor head 
Lie pillowed with these stones. My store 
Of wealth is these. I earned them. Let 

me keep 
Still on alone, on mine own star-lit steep. 



My books were written largely for magazines and papers while I kept roaming about the world when 
and where I would, writing verse or prose as I pleased or could place it. And now let me note an 
error. A poet should not live by prose. Only a Scott can do that. Better be a day laborer, anything in 
reason, than write for mere money. Only of late, since I leaned on my hoe and plow for bread rather than on 



LATER POEMS. 255 



prose, have I felt my full streugth ia verse. Much of my prose was patched together, making the book and 
play of "The Daiiites," the book aud play of '"49," and also the books, "Shadows of Shasta "and "The One 
Fair Woman," all unsatisfactory. I had early written a descriptive personal novel, the scenes laid in the region 
of Mount Shasta, and failing to dispose of it Prentice Mulford, who had joined me in London about the time 
of the Modoc war, proposed that we make it still more personal aud publish it as "My Life Among the Mo- 
docs." He was led to this by the correspondents at the seat of war making the startling discovery that the 
poem, "The Tall Alcalde," was my own life. He had little more to do than take graphic accounts, conceived 
when war news was scarce, aud saudwich them in through the novel and weld them fast. He did all the 
work, reading me now and then, for my eyes had almost quite failed me; aud it proved to be popular both 
abroad and at home. Bently, publisher to the Queen, brought it out and it still refuses to die, although I have at 
times cut and slashed it terribly. It owes its long life to Mulford; and the lesson to me is that no poet can 
write ordinary prose without writing very ordinary verse. 

Why have we so few true poets and fearless prophets to lead the people upward to-day? Because they gather 
money, and gather money, and gather money with the right hand, and at the same time try to write poetry with 
the left hand. 

It is more important to the Nation, and quite as easy if rightly directed, to be a mental than a physical athlete. 
In the first place, then, be well rested and well fed; rested in mind as the athlete is rested in body for his work, 
fed in mind as the boxer is fed in body. Repose of miud is power. Yet has the foolish world ever stoned its 
prophets; therefore it is that the poets ever have, ever must, and ever will, if true poets go apart. For only with 
God, away from the marts, is that repose which of itself is power to be possessed. But, mark you, not as a hermit, 
not as a hater, but as a lover of all men, all things, must you go to mount your throne and rule your own beautiful 
world. 

Having peace, repose of mind, rest the body, keeping in mind the careful training of the physical athlete 
continuously. As to the position of the body when at work, that is as you please. I generally found George Eliot 
doubled up on a sofa, her legs up under her, heaps of robes, and a pad on her lap. I read that Mrs. Browning 
always wrote in bed. I know that Mrs. Waguer— Madge Morris— does; while Miss Coolbrith writes, she tells me, on 
her feet, going along about her affairs till her poem is complete, and then writing it down exactly as she has framed 
it in her mind. Harriet Prescott Spofford writes on a pad in her lap in the parlor, under the trees with a party, 
takes part in the talk as she writes, and is generally the brightest of the company. Lady Hardy told me she could 
only write with her face to the blank wall, while Mrs. Braddon, the prolific, showed me her desk bowered in her 
Richmond Hill garden, where she wrote to the song of birds about forty popular novels. I find that men differ 
quite as widely in their preference of place and attitude. But it is to be noted that each person has a preference; 
aud this preference must be respected to have your best results. 

For instance, Anthony Trollope, a ponderous man, always wrote standing straight as a post to a high desk, 
his watch before him, beginning always at a certain minute and ending exactly the same. That watch would have 
landed me in a madhouse. Whittier and Longfellow wrote on their desks with everything at hand and in order, 
and had perfect quiet. I am told that the other great scribes of New England were all of the same discipline. 
Bret Harte is equally exacting and orderly. He once told me that his first line was always a cigar, and sometimes 
two cigars. I reckon Walt Whitman could write anywhere. I once was with him on top of a Fifth Avenue omni- 
bus, above a sea of people, when he began writing on the edge of a newspaper, and he kept it up for half an hour, 
although his elbow was almost continuously tangled up with that of the driver. 

As for myself, I can write but in one place and in oue position, and but at one certain time. Yet this may 
be all a habit. At the same time I must respect this habit or preference to do my work as duty demands. In the 
first place, then, a good dinner at my mothers table, with all my house, and maybe some friends about me, no 
newspapers on the place, no mail maybe for a week if the work to be done is important — and all work should be — 
then to bed with the birds and a full night's rest, my door wide open; my coffee in bed at daylight, then a cigar, if 
I can find one, and as it bums to the end I begin and write till about twelve, when I dress, breakfast, and then 
I spend the rest of the day in the fields till dinner. Let me explain that, years ago, I went to the French Hospital, 
Pincean Hill, Rome, with the late Senator Miller of California, who had a bullet in an eye from Stone's River, and 
as I was limping badly from an old arrow hurt, a famous surgeon there kindly treated me. But he kept me lashed 
down so long that I had to work on my back; and have preferred that position ever since. This much for habit; yet 
I really believe with George Eliot, that "there is nothing like keeping the back and legs warm while at work." As 
for stimulants, don't think of such things, not even to start or conceive a thought. My own best stimulant or 
conception of work with life and action in it is a strong house, room, woods, the wild, rolling bills. In truth, were 
you to take all out that has come to me in this way, there would be little left worth reading. Yet to tie things down 
in black and white, as said before, take absolute repose. 



256 



LATER POEMS. 



These later poems, so far as written at that time, were compiled and revised during my first years at my 
mountain home overlooking San Francisco Bay, put in book form in Chicago, 1890, and dedicated to my daughter. 



JUANITA. 

You will come my bird, Bonita ? 
Comel For I by steep and stone 
Have built such nest for you, Juauita, 
As not eagle bird hath known. 



Bugged! Rugged as Parnassus! 
Rude, as all roads I have trod— 
Yet are steeps and stone-strewn passes 
Smooth o'er head, and nearest God. 



Here black thunders of my caiion 
Shake its walls in Titan wars! 
Here white sea-born clouds companion 
With such peaks as know the stars! 

Here madrona, manzanita — 
Here the snarling chaparral 
House and hang o'er steeps, Juanita, 
Where the gaunt wolf loved to dwell! 

Dear, I took these trackless masses 
Fresh from Him who fashioned them; 
Wrought in rock, and hewed fair passes. 
Flower set, as sets a gem. 

Aye, I built in woe. God willed it; 
Woe that passetb ghosts of guilt; 



Yet I built as His birds builded— 
Builded, singing as I built. 

All is finished! Roads of flowers 
Wait your loyal little feet. 
All completed? Nay, the hours 
Till you come are incomplete. 

Steep below me lies the valley. 
Deep below me lies the town, 
Where great sea-ships ride and rally. 
And the world walks up and down. 



O, the sea of lights far streaming 
When the thousand flags are furled— 
When the gleaming bay lies dreaming 
As it duplicates the world! 



You will come my dearest, truest? 
Come my sovereign queen of ten; 
My blue skies will then be bluest; 
My white rose be whitest then: 



Then the song! Ah, then the saber 
Flashing up the walls of night! 
Hate of wrong and love of neighbor-' 
Rhymes of battle for the Right! 
The Hii/hts, Cal. 



THE IDEAL. AND THE REAL. 



257 



SONGS OF THE SOUL. 

thou To-morrow ! Mystery ! 
O day that ever runs he/ore ! 
What hast thine hidden hand in store 
For mine, To-morrow, and for me f 
O thou To-morrow ! what hast thou 
In store to make me hear the Nowt 

O day in which we shall forget 
The tangled troubles of to-day ! 
O day that laughs at duns, at debt! 
O day of x)romises to pay ! 
O shelter from all present storm ! 
day in which we shall reform ! 

days of all days to reform ! 
Convenient day of promises ! 
Hold back the shadow of the storm. 
Let not thy mystery be less, 
O bless'd To-morrow ! chief est friend. 
But lead us blindfold to the end. 

THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 

And full these truths eternal 
O'er the yearning spirit steal. 
That the real is the ideal. 
And the ideal is the real. 



She was damn'd -with the dower of 

beauty, she 
Had gold in shower by shoulder and brow. 
Her feet! — why, her two blessed feet, were 

so small, 
They could nest in this hand. How 

queenly, how tall, 
How gi-acious, how grand! She was all 

to me, — 
My present, my past, my eternity! 



She but lives in my dreams. I behold 

her now 
By shoreless white waters that flow'd like 

a sea 
At her feet where I sat; her lips push'd 

out 
In brave, warm welcome of dimple and 

pout! 
'Twas aeons agone. By that river that ran 
All fathomless, echoless, limitless, on. 



258 



THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 



And shoreless, aud peopled with never a 


How tender she was, aud how timid she 


man. 


was! 


We met, soul to soul No land; yet I 


But a black, hoofed beast, with the head of 


think 


a man, 


There were willows and lilies that lean'd 


Stole down where she sat at my side, and 


to drink. 


begun 


The stars they were seal'd aud the moons 


To puff his tan cheeks, then to play, then 


were gone. 


to pause. 


The wide shining circles that girdled that 


With his double-reed pipe; then to play 


world, 


and to play 


They were distant and dim. And an in- 


As never played man since the world be- 


cense curl'd 


gan. 


In vapory folds from that river that ran 


And never shall play till the judgment 


All shoreless, with never the presence of 


day. 


man. 






How he pufifd! how he play'd! Then 


How sensuous the night; how soft was 


down the dim shore. 


the sound 


This half-devil man, all hairy and black. 


Of her voice on the night! How warm 


Did dance with his hoofs in the sand. 


was her breath 


laughing back 


In that world that had never yet tasted of 


As his song died away She turned never 


death 


more 


Or forbidden sweet fruit! In that far 


Unto me after that. She rose, and she 


profound. 


pass'd 




Eight on from my sight. Then I followed 




as fast 


We were camped on the edges of god- 


As true love can follow. But ever before 


land. We 


Like a spirit she fled. How vain and how 


Were the people of Saturn. The watery 


far 


fields, 


Did I follow my beauty, red belt or white 


The wide-wing'd, dolorous birds of the 


star! 


sea. 


Through foamy white sea, unto fruit laden 


They acknowledged but us. Our brave 


shore! 


battle shields 




Were my naked white palms; our food it 




was love. 


How long I did follow! My pent soul 


Our roof was the fresco of gold belts 


of fire 


above. 


It did feed on itself. I fasted, I cried; 




Was tempted by many. Yet still I de- 




nied 


How turn'd she to me where that wide 


The touch of all things, and kept my de- 


river ran, 


sire 


With its lilies and willows aud watery 


I stood by the lion of St. Mark in that 


reeds. 


hour 


And heeded as only your true love 


Of Venice when gold of the sunset is 


heeds! 


roll'd 



THE IDEAL, AND THE REAL. 



259 



From cloud to cathedral, from turret to 

tower, 
In matchless, magnificeut garments of 

gold; 
Then I knew she was near; yet I had not 

known 
Her form or her face since the stars were 

sown. 



We two had been parted — God pity us! — 

when 
This world was unnamed and all heaven 

was dim; 
We two had been parted far back on the 

rim 
And the outermost border of heaven's red 

bars; 
We two had been parted ere the meeting 

of men. 
Or God had set compass on spaces as 

yet; 
We two had been parted ere God had once 

set 
His finger to spinning the purple with 

stars, — 
And now at the last in the sea and fret 
Of the sun of Venice, we two had met. 



Where the lion of Venice, with brows 

a-frown. 
With tossed mane tumbled, and teeth in 

air. 
Looks out in his watch o'er the watery 

town. 
With paw half lifted, with claws half 

bare. 
By the blue Adriatic, at her bath in the 

sea, — 
I saw her. I knew her, but she knew not 

me. 
I had found her at last! Why I, I had 

sail'd 
The antipodes through, had sought, and 

had hail'd 



All flags; I had climbed where the storm 

clouds curl'd. 
And call'd o'er the awful arch'd dome of 

the world. 



I saw her one moment, then fell back 

abash'd, 
And fiU'd to the throat Then I turu'd 

me once more, 
Thanking God in my soul, while the level 

sun flashed 
Happy halos about her Her breast! — 

why, her breast 
Was white as twin pillows that lure you to 

rest. 
Her sloping limbs moved like to melodies 

told, 
As she rose from the sea, and threw back 

the gold 
Of her glorious hair, and set face to the 

shore . 

I knew her! I knew her, though we had 

not met 
Since the red stars sang to the sun's first 

set! 



How long I had sought her! I had hun- 

ger'd, nor ate 
Of any sweet fruits. I had followed not 

one 
Of all the fair glories grown under the 

sun. 
I had sought only her, believing that she 
Had come upon earth, and stood waiting 

for me 
Somewhere by my way. But the path- 
ways of Fate 
They had led otherwhere; the round world 

round. 
The far North seas and the near profound 
Had fail'd me for aye. Now I stood by 

that sea 
Where she bathed in her beauty, God, 

I and she! 



26o 



THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 



I spake not, but caught in my breath; I 

did raise 
My face to fair heaven to give God praise 
That at last, ere the ending of Time, we 

had met, 
Had touch'd upon earth at the same sweet 

place.. . . 
Yea, we never had met since creation at 

all; 
Never, since ages ere Adam's fall, 
Had we two met in that hunger and fret 
Where two should be one, but had wan- 

der'd through space; 
Through space and through spheres, as 

some bird that hard fate 
Gives a thousand glad Springs but never 

one mate. 



Was it well with my love? Was she 
true? Was she brave 

With virtue's own valor? Was she wait- 
ing for me? 

Oh, how fared my love? Had she home? 
had she bread ? 

Had she known but the touch of the warm- 
temper'd wave? 

Was she born to this world with a crown 
on her head, 

Or born, like myself, but a dreamer in- 
stead? 

So long it had been! So long! Why, the 
sea — 

That wrinkled and surly, old, time-tem- 
per'd slave — 

Had been born, had his revels, grown 
wrinkled and hoar 

Since I last saw my love on that uttermost 
shore. 

Oh, how fared my love? Once I lifted 

my face, 
And I shook back my hair and look'd out 

on the sea; 
I press'd my hot palms as I stood in my 

place, 



And I cried, "Oh, I come like a king to 

your side 
Though all hell intervene! " " Hist! she 

may be a bride, 
A mother at peace, with sweet babes at her 

knee! 
A babe at her breast and a spouse at her 

side! — 
Had I wander'd too long, and had Destiny 
Set mortal between us?" I buried my 

face 
In my hands, and I moan'd as I stood in 

my place. 

'Twas her year to be young. She was 

tall, she was fair — 
Was she pure as the snow on the Alps 

over there ? 
'Twas her year to be young. She was 

queenly and tall; 
And I felt she was true, as I lifted my 

face 
And saw her press down her rich robe to 

its place. 
With a hand white and small as a babe's 

with a doll. 
And her feet! — why, her feel in the white 

shining sand 
Were so small, 'twas a wonder the maiden 

could stand. 
Then she push'd back her hair with a 

round hand that shone 
And flash'd in the light with a white 

starry stone. 

Then my love she is rich! My love she 

is fair! 
Is she pure as the snow on the Alps over 

there? 
She is gorgeous with wealth! "Thank 

God, she has bread," 
I said to myself. Then I humbled my 

head 
In gratitude deep. Then I question'd me 

where 



THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 



261 



Was her palace, her parents ? What name 

did she bear? 
What mortal on earth came nearest her 

heart ? 
Who touch'd the small hand til) it thrill'd 

to a smart ? 
Twas her year to be young. She was 

rich, she was fair — 
Was she pure as the snow on the Alps 

over there ? 

Then she loosed her rich robe that was 
blue like the sea. 

And silken and soft as a baby's new born. 

And my heart it leap'd light as the sun- 
light at morn 

At the sight of my love in her proud 
purity, 

As she rose like a Naiad half-robed from 
the sea. 

Then careless and calm as an empress can 
be 

She loosed and let fall all the raiment of 
blue. 

As she drew a white robe in a melody 

Of moving white limbs, while between 
the two. 

Like a rift in a cloud, shone her fair pres- 
ence through. 

Soon she turn'd, reach'd a hand; then 

a tall gondolier 
Who had lean'd on his oar, like a long 

lifted spear, 
Shot sudden and swift and all silently, 
And drew to her side as she turn'd from 

the tide. 
It was odd, such a thing, and I counted 

it queer 
That a princess like this, whether virgin 

or bride, 
Should abide thus apart as she bathed in 

the sea; 
And I chafed and I chafed, and so unsat- 
isfied, 



That I flutter'd the doves that were perch'd 

close about, 
As I strode up and down in dismay and 

in doubt. 

Swift she stept in the boat on the bor- 
ders of night 

As an angel might step on that far won- 
der land 

Of eternal sweet life, which men mis-name 
Death. 

Quick I called me a craft, and I caught at 
my breath 

As she sat in the boat, and her white baby 
hand 

Held vestments of gold to her throat, 
snowy white. 

Then her gondola shot, — shot sharp for 
the shore: 

There was never the sound of a song or 
of oar. 

But the doves hurried home iu white 
clouds to Saint Mark, 

Where the brass horses plunge their high 
manes in the dark. 



Then I cried: "Follow fast! Follow 

fast! Follow fast! 
Aye! thrice double fare, if you follow her 

true 
To her own palace door!" There was 

plashing of oar 
And rattle of rowlock....! sat peering 

through. 
Looking far in the dark, peering out as 

we passed 
With my soul all alert, bending down, 

leaning low. 
But only the oaths of the fisherman's 

crew 
When we jostled them sharp as we sud- 
den shot through 
The watery town. Then a deep, distant 

roar — 
The rattle of rowlock; the rush of the oar. 



262 



THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 



The rattle of rowlock, the rush of the 

sea. . . . 
Swift wind like a sword at the throat of 

us all! 
I lifted my face, and, far, fitfully 
The heavens breathed lightning; did lift 

and let fall 
As if angels were parting God's curtains. 

Then deep 
And indolent-like, and as if half asleep, 
As if half made angry to move at all, 
The thunder moved. It confronted me. 
It stood like an avalanche poised on a hill, 
I saw its black brows. I heard it stand 

still. 



The troubled sea throbb'd as if rack'd 

with pain. 
Then the black clouds rose and suddenly 

rode, 
As a fiery, fierce stallion that knows no 

rein; 
Kight into the town. Then the thunder 

strode 
As a giant striding from star to red star. 
Then turn'd upon earth and frantically 

came. 
Shaking the hollow heaven. And far 
And near red lightning in ribbon and 

skin 
Did seam and furrow the cloud with flame, 
And write on black heaven Jehovah's 

name. 

Then lightnings came weaving like shut- 
tlecocks. 

Weaving rent robes of black clouds for 
death. 

And frightened doves fluttered them home 
in flocks, 

And mantled men hied them with gather'd 
breath. 

Black gondolas scattered as never before, 

And drew like crocodiles up on the shore; 

And vessels at sea stood further at sea. 



And seamen hauFd with a bended knee. 
And canvas came down to left and to 

right, 
Till ships stood stripp'd as if stripp'd for 

fight! 

Then an oath. Then a prayer. Then a 
gust, with rents 

Through the yellow sail'd fishers. Then 
suddenly 

Came sharp fork'd fire! Then again thun- 
der fell 

Like the great first gun! Ah, then there 
was rout 

Of ships like the breaking of regiments. 

And shouts as if hurled from an upper 
heU. 

Then tempest ! It lifted, it spun us about, 
Then shot us ahead through the hills of 

the sea 
As a great steel arrow shot shoreward in 

wars — 
Then the storm split open till I saw the 

blown stars. 

On! on! through the foam! through the 
storm! through the town! 

She was gone! She was lost in that 
wilderness 

Of leprous white palaces ... .Black dis- 
tress! 

I stood in my gondola. All up and all 
down 

We pushed through the surge of the salt- 
flood street 

Above and below .... 'Twas only the beat 

Of the sea's sad heart....! leaned, list- 
ened; I sat .... 

'Twas only the water-rat; nothing but 
that; 

Not even the sea-bird screaming distress. 

As she lost her way in that wilderness. 

I listen'd all night. I caught at each 
sound; 



THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 



263 



I clntch'd and I caught as a mau that 

drowu'd — 
Only the sullen, low growl of the sea 
Far out the flood-street at the edge of the 

ships; 
Only the billow slow licking his lips, 
A dog that lay crouching there watching 

for me, — 
Growling and showing white teeth all the 

night; 
Only a dog, and as ready to bite; 
Only the waves with their salt-flood tears 
Fretting white stones of a thousand years. 

And then a white dome in the loftiness 
Of cornice and cross and of glittering 

spire 
That thrust to heaven and held the fire 
Of the thunder still; the bird's distress 
As he struck his wings in that wilderness, 
On marbles that speak, and thrill, and in- 
spire, — 
The night below and the night above; 
The water-rat building, the sea-lost dove; 
That one lost, dolorous, lone bird's call, 
The water-rat building, — but that was all. 

Silently, slowly, still up and still down. 
We row'd and we row'd for many an hour, 
By beetling palace and toppling tower. 
In the darks and the deeps of the watery 

town. 
Only the water-rat building by stealth, 
Only the lone bird astray in his flight 
That struck white wings in the clouds of 

night, 
Ou spires that sprang from Queen Adria's 

wealth; 
Onlj' one sea dove, one lost white dove: 
The blackness below, the blackness above! 

Then, pushing the darkness from pillar 
to post, 
The morning came sullen and gray like a 
ghost 



Slow up the canal. I lean'd from the 

prow. 
And listen'd. Not even that dove in dis- 
tress 
Crying its way through the wilderness; 
Not even the stealthy old water-rat now, 
Only the bell in the fisherman's tower, 
Slow tolling at sea and telling the hour, 
To kneel to their sweet Santa Barbara 
For tawny fishers at sea, and to pray. 

High over my head, carved cornice, 

quaint spire. 
And ancient built palaces knock'd their 

gray brows 
Together and frown'd. Then slow-creep- 
ing scows 
Scraped the walls on each side. Above 

me the fire 
Of sudden-born morning came flaming in 

bars ; 
While lip through the chasm I could count 

the stars. 
Oh, pity! Such ruin! The dank smell of 

death 
Crept up the canal: I could scarce take 

my breath! 
'Twas the fit place for pirates, for women 

who keep 
Contagion of body and soul where they 

sleep .... 



God's pity! A white hand now beck'd 

me 
From an old mouldy door, almost in my 

reach. 
I sprang to the sill as one wrecked to a 

beach; 
I sprang with wide arms: it was she! it 

was she!. . . . 
And in such a damn'd place! And what 

was her trade? 
To think I had follow'd so faithful, so far 
From eternity's brink, from star to white 

star. 



264 



THE IDEAL, AND THE REAL. 



To find her, to find her, nor wife nor 

sweet maid! 
To find her a shameless poor creature of 

shame, 
A nameless, lost body, men hardly dared 

name. 



All alone in her shame, on that damp 

dismal floor 
She stood to entice me I bow'd me be- 
fore 
All-conquering beauty. I call'd her my 

Queen! 
I told her my love as I proudly had 

told 
My love had I found her as pure as pure 

gold. 
I reach'd her my hands, as fearless, as 

clean. 
As man fronting cannon. I cried, "Hasten 

forth 
To the sun! There are lands to the south, 

to the north, 
Anywhere where you will. Dash the 

shame from your brow; 
Come with me, for ever; and come with 

me now! " 



Why, I'd have turn'd pirate for her, 

would have seen 
Ships burn'd from the seas, like to stub- 
ble from field. 
Would I turn from her now ? Why should 

I now yield, 
When she needed me most? Had I found 

her a queen. 
And beloved by the world, — why, what 

had I done? 
I had woo'd, and had woo'd, and had 

woo'd till I won! 
Then, if I had loved her with gold and 

fair fame. 
Would not I now love her, and love her 

the same? 



My soul hath a pride. I would tear out 

my heart 
And cast it to dogs, could it play a dog's 

part! 



"Don't you know me, my bride of the 
wide world of yore? 

Why, don't you remember the white 
milky-way 

Of stars, that we traversed the aeons be- 
fore ? 

We were counting the colors, we were 
naming the seas 

Of the vaster ones. You remember the 
trees 

That sway'd in the cloudy white heavens, 
and bore 

Bright crystals of sweets, and the sweet 
manna-dew? 

Why, you smile as you weep, you remem- 
ber, and you, 

You know me! You know me! You know 
me! Yea, 

You know me as if 'twere but yesterday! 



I told her all things. Her brow took a 

frown; 
Her grand Titan beauty, so tall, so serene, 
The one perfect woman, mine own idol 

queen — 
Her proud swelling bosom, it broke up 

and down 
As she spake, and she shook in her soul 

as she said, 
With her small hands held to her bent, 

aching head: 
"Go back to the world! Go back, and 

alone 
Till kind Death comes and makes white 

his own." 
I said; "I will wait! I will wait in the 

pass 
Of death, until Time he shall break his 

glass." 



THE IDEAL AND THE REAL. 



265 



Then I cried, "Yea, here where the 

gods did love, 
Where the white Europa was won, — she 

rode 
Her milk-white bull through these same 

warm seas, — 
Yea, here in the land where huge Her- 
cules, 
With the lion's heart and the heart of the 

dove. 
Did walk in his naked great strength, and 

strode 
In the sensuous air with his lion's skin 
Flapping and fretting his knotted thews: 
Where Theseus did wander, and Jason 

cruise, — 
Yea, here let the life of all lives begin. 

"Yea! Here where the Orient balms 

breathe life, 
Where heaven is kindest, where all God's 

blue 
Seems a great gate open'd to welcome 

you. 
Come, rise and go forth, my empress, my 

wife." 
Then spake her great soul, so grander 

far 
Than I had believed on that outermost 

star; 
And she put by her tears, and calmly she 

said, 
With hands still held to her bended head: 
" I will go through the doors of death and 

wait 
For you on the innermost side death's 

gate. 

"Thank God that this life is but a day's 
span. 
But a wayside inn for weary, worn man — 
A night and a day; and, to-morrow, the 

spell 
0, darkness is broken. Now, darling, fare- 
well!" 



I caught at her robe as one ready to 

die — 
"Nay, touch not the hem of my robe — it 

is red 
With sins that your own sex heap'd on 

my head! 
Now turn you, yes, turn! But remember 

how I 
Wait weeping, in sackcloth, the while I 

wait 
Inside death's door, and watch at the 

gate." 



I cried yet again, how I cried, how I 
cried. 

Beaching face, reaching hands as a drown- 
ing man might. 

She drew herself back, put my two hands 
aside, 

Half turned as she spoke, as one turned 
to the night: 

Speaking low, speaking soft as a wind 
through the wall 

Of a ruin where mold and night masters 
all; 



" I shall live my day, live patient on 

through 
The life that man hath compelled me to, 
Then turn to my mother, sweet earth, and 

pray 
She keep me pure to the Judgment Day! 
I shall sit and wait as you used to do. 
Will wait the next life, through the whole 

life through. 
I shall sit all alone, I shall wait alway; 
I shall wait inside of the gate for 

you. 

Waiting, and counting the days as I 

wait; 
Yea, wait as that beggar that sat by the 

gate 
Of Jerusalem, waiting the Judgment 

Day." 



266 



A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 



A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 

O terrible lion of tame Saint Mark ! 
Tamed old lion with the tumbled mane 
Tossed to the clouds and lost in the dark, 
With teeth in the air and tail-whipped back. 
Foot on the Bible as if thy track 
Led thee the lord of the desert again 
Say, what of thy watch o'er the watery town? 
Say, what of the ivorlds walking up and down? 

O silent old monarch that tops Saint Mark, 
That sat thy throne for a thousand years, 
That lorded the deep that defied all men, — 
Lo ! I see visions at sea in the dark; 
And I see something that shines like tears, 
And I hear something that sounds like sighs, 
And I hear something that seems as when 
A great soul suffers and sinks and dies. 



Tbe high-born, beautiful snow came 

down, 
Silent and soft as the terrible feet 
Of time on the mosses of ruins. Sweet 
Was the Christmas time in the watery 

town. 
'Twas full flood carnival swell'd the sea 
Of Venice that night, and canal and quay 
Were alive with humanity. Man and 

maid, 
Glad in mad revel and masquerade. 
Moved through the feathery snow in the 

night. 
And shook black locks as they laugh'd 

outright. 

From Santa Maggiore, and to and fro. 
And ugly and black as if devils cast out, 
Black streaks through the night of such 
soft, white snow, 



The steel-prow'd gondolas paddled about; 
There was only the sound of the long oars' 

dip. 
As the low moon sail'd up the sea like a 

ship 
In a misty morn. High the low moon 

rose, 
Eose veil'd and vast, through the feathery 

snows. 
As a minstrel stept silent and sad from his 

boat. 
His worn cloak clutched in his hand to 

his throat. 

Low under the lion that guards St. Mark, 
Down under wide wings on the edge of 

the sea 
In the dim of the lamps, on the rim of 

the dark, 
Alone and sad in the salt-flood town, 



A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 



267 



Sileut and sad aud all sulleulyj 

He sat by the columu where the crocodile 

Keeps watch o'er the wave, far mile upon 
mile. . , . 

Like a signal light through the storm let 
down. 

Then a far star fell through the dim pro- 
found — 

A jewel that slipp'd God's hand to the 
ground. 

The storm had blown over! Now up 

and then down, 
Alone and in couples, sweet women did 

pass, 
Silent and dreamy, as if seen in a glass. 
Half mask'd to the eyes, in their Adrian 

town. 
Such women! It breaks one's heart to 

think. 
Water! and never one drop to drink! 
What types of Titian! What glory of 

hair! 
How tall as the sisters of Saul! How fair! 
Sweet flowers of flesh, and all blossom- 

iug. 
As if 'twere in Eden, and in Eden's spring. 

" They are talking aloud with all their 

eyes. 
Yet passing me by with never one word. 
O pouting sweet lips, do you know there 

are lies 
That are told with the eyes, aud never 

once heard 
Above a heart's beat when the soul is 

stirr'd? 
It is time to fly home, O doves of St. 

Mark! 
Take boughs of the olive; bear these to 

your ark. 
And rest and be glad, for the seas and the 

skies 
Of Venice are fair ... .What! wouldn't go 

home? 



What! drifting and drifting as the soil'd 
seafoam ? 



" And who then are you? You, masked, 
and so fair? 
Your half seen face is a rose full blown, 
Down under your black and abundant 

hair? 

A child of the street, and unloved and 

alone! 
Unloved; and alone?. .. .There is some- 
thing then 
Between us two that is not unlike! .... 
The strength and the purposes of men 
Fall broken idols. We aim and strike 
With high-born zeal and with proud in- 
tent. 
Yet let life turn on some accident .... 



"Nay, I'll not preach. Time's lessons 

pass 
Like twilight's swallows. They chirp in 

their flight, 
And who takes heed of the wasting 

glass? 
Night follows day, and day follows night, 
And no thing rises on earth but to fall 
Like leaves, with their lessons most sad 

and fit. 
They are spread like a volume each year 

to all; 
Yet men or women learn naught of it. 
Or after it all, but a weariness 
Of soul and body and untold distress. 



" Yea, sit, lorn child, by my side, and 

we, 
We will talk of the world. Nay, let my 

hand 
Fall kindly to yours, and so, let your 

face 
Fall fair to my shoulder, and you shall be 
My dream of sweet Italy. Here in this 

place, 



268 



A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 



Alone in the crowds of this old careless 

land, 
I shall shelter your form till the morn 

and then — 
Why, I shall return to the world and to 

men, 
And you, not stain'd for one strange, kind 

woi'd 
And my three last francs, for a lorn night 

bird. 



"Fear nothing from me, nay, never 

once fear. 
The day, my darling, comes after the 

night. 
The nights they were made to show the 

light 
Of the stars in heaven, though the storms 

be near .... 
Do you see that figure of Fortune up 

there. 
That tops the Dogana with toe a-tip 
Of the great gold ball ? Her scroll is a-trip 
To the turning winds. She is light as the 

air. 
Her foot is set upon plenty's horn. 
Her fair face set to the coming morn. 



"Well, trust we to Fortune Bread 

on the wave 
Turns ever ashore to the hand that gave. 
What am I? A poet — a lover of all 
That is lovely to see. Nay, naught shall 

befall.... 
Yes, I am a failure. I plot and I plan. 
Give splendid advice to my fellow-man. 
Yet ever fall short of achievement Ah 

me! 
In my lorn life's early, sad afternoon. 
Say, what have I left but a rhyme or a 

rune? 
An emjity hand for some soul at sea. 
Some fair, forbidden, sweet fruit to 

choose, 



That 'twere sin to touch, and — sin to re- 
fuse? 



" What! I go drifting with you, girl, 

to-night ? 
To sit at your side and to call you love? 
Well, that were a fancy! To feed a dove, 
A poor soil'd dove of this dear Saint 

Mark, 
Too frighten'd to rest and too weary for 

flight .... 
Aye, just three francs, my fortune. 

There! He 
Who feeds the sparrows for this will 

feed me. 
Now, here 'neath the lion, alone in the 

dark. 
And side by side let us sit, poor dear, 
Breathing the beauty as an atmosphere. . . 

" We will talk of your loves, I write 

tales of love. . . . 
What! Cannot read? Why, you never 

heard then 
Of your Desdemona, nor the daring men 
Who died for her love? My poor white 

dove. 
There's a story of Shylock would drive 

you wild. 
What! Never have heard of these stories, 

my child? 
Of Tasso, of Petrarch? Not the Bridge 

of Sighs? 
Not the tale of Ferrara? Not the thou- 
sand whys 
That your Venice was ever adored above 
All other fair lands for her stories of love' 



"What then about Shylock? 'Twas i 

gold. Yes — dead. 
The lady? 'Twas love. .. .Why, yes; she 

too 
Is dead. And Byron? 'Twas fame. Ah, 

true 



A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 



269 



Tasso and Petrarch? All died, just the 

same 

Yea, so endeth all, as you truly have 

said. 
And you, poor girl, are too wise; and 

you, 
Too sudden and swift in your hard, ugly 

youth. 
Have stumbled face fronting an obstinate 

truth. 
For whether for love, for gold, or for 

fame, 
They but lived their day, and they died, 

the same. 

But let's talk not of death ? Of death or 

the life 
That comes after death? 'Tis beyond your 

reach, 
And this too much thought has a sense of 

strife 

Ah, true; I promised you not to preach. . . 
My maid of Venice, or maid unmade, 
Hold close your few francs and be not 

afraid. 
What! Say you are hungry? Well, let 

us dine 
Till the near morn comes on the silver 

shine 
Of the lamp-lit sea. At the dawn of day. 
My sad child-woman, you can go your 

way. 

" What! You have a palace? I know your 

town; 
Know every nook of it, left and right, 
As well as yourself. Why, far up and 

down 
Your salt flood streets, lo, many a night 
I have row'd and have roved in my lorn 

despair 
Of love upon earth, and I know well 

there 
Is no such palace. What! and you dare 
To look in my face and to lie outright, 



To lift your face, and to frown me down? 
There is no such palace in that part of 
the town! 



" You would woo me away to your 

rickety boat! 
You would pick my pockets! You would 

cut my throat, 
With help of your pirates! Then throw me 

out 
Loaded with stones to sink me down, 
Down into the filth and the dregs of your 

town! 
Why, that is your damnable aim, no doubt! 
And, my plaintive voiced child, you seem 

too fair, 
Too fair, for even a thought like that; 
Too fair for ever such sin to dare — 
Ay, even the tempter to whisper at. 

" Now, there is such a thing as being 

true, 
True, even in villiany. Listen to me: 
Blaok-skinn'd women and low-brow'd men. 
And desperate robbers and thieves; and 

then. 
Why, there are the pirates! Ay, pirates 

reform'd — 
Pirates reform'd and unreform'd; 
Pirates for me girl, friends for you, — 
And these are your neighbors. And so you 

see 
That I know your town, your neighbors; 

and I — 
Well, pardon me, dear — but I know you 

lie. 



"Tut, tut, my beauty! What trickery 

now? 
Why, tears through your hair on my hand 

like rain! 
Come! look in my face: laugh, lie again 
With your wonderful eyes. Lift up your 

brow. 



270 



A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 



Laugh in the face of the world, and lie! 

Now, come! This lying is no new thing. 

The wearers of laces know well how to 
lie, 

As well, ay, better, than you or I. . . . 

But they lie for fortune, for fame: in- 
stead. 

You, child of the street, only lie for your 
bread. 



...."Some sounds blow in from the 
distant land. 
The bells strike sharp, and as otit of tune, 
Some sudden, short notes. To the east 

and afar. 
And up from the sea, there is lifting a star 
As large, my beautiful child, and as white 
And as lovely to see as some lady's white 

hand. 
The people have melted away with the 

night, 
And not one gondola frets the lagoon. 
See! Away to the mountain, the face of 

morn. 
Hear! Away to the sea — 'tis the fisher- 
man's horn. 



" 'Tis morn in Venice! My child, adieu! 
Arise, sad sister, and go your way; 
And as for myself, why, much like you, 
I shall sell this story to who will pay 
And dares to reckon it truthful and meet. 
Yea, each of us traders, poor child of 

pain; 
For each must barter for bread to eat 
In a world of trade and an age of gain; 
With just this difference, waif of the 

street, 
You sell your body, I sell mj' brain. 



" Poor lost little vessel, with never a 
keel. 
Saint Marks, what a wreck! Lo, here you 
reel, 



With never a soul to advise or to care; 
All cover'd with sin to the brows and 

hair, 
You lie like a seaweed, well a-strand; 
Blown like the sea-kelp hard on the 

shale, 
A half-drown'd body, with never a hand 
Keachd out to help where you falter and 

fail: 
Left stranded alone to starve and to 

die. 
Or to sell your body to who may buy. 

"My sister of sin, I will kiss you! 

Yea, 
I will fold you, hold you close to my 

breast; 
And here as you rest in your first fair 

rest. 
As night is push'd back from the face of 

day, 
I will push your heavy, dark heaven of 

hair 
Well back from your brow, and kiss you 

where 
Your ruflQan, bearded, black men of crime 
Have stung you and stain'd you a thou- 
sand time; 
I will call you my sister, sweet child, and 

keep 
You close to my heart, lest you wake but 

to weep. 

"I will tenderly kiss you, and I shall 

not be 
Ashamed, nor yet stain'd in the least, 

sweet dove, — 
I will tenderly kiss, with the kiss of 

Love, 
And of Faith, and of Hope, and of Char- 

ity. 
Nay, I shall be purer and be better 

then; 
For, child of the street, you, living or 

dead, 



A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 



271 



Stain'd to the brows, are purer to me 
Ten thousand times than the world of 

men, 
Who reach you a hand but to lead you 

astray, — 
But the dawn is upon us. There! go your 

way. 



»' And take gi-eat courage. Take courage 

and say, 
Of this one Christmas when I am away, 
Eoving the world and forgetful of you. 
That I found you as white as the snow 

and knew 
You but needed a word to keep jow 

true. 
When you fall weary and so need rest. 
Then find kind words hidden down in 

your breast; 
And if rough men question you, — why, 

then say 
That Madonna sent them. Then kneel 

and pray, 
And pray for me, the worst of the 

two: 
Then God will bless you, sweet child, 

and I 
Shall be the better when I come to die. 



•' Tea, take great courage, it will be as 

bread; 
Have faith, have faith while this day wears 

through. 
Then rising refresh'd, try virtue instead; 
Be stronger and better, poor, pitiful 

dear. 
So prompt with a lie, so prompt with a 

tear, 
For the hand grows stronger as the heart 

grows true .... 
Take courage, my child, for I promise 

you 
We are judged by our chances of life and 

lot; 



And your poor little soul may yet pass 

throi;gh 
The eye of the needle, where laces shall 

not. 



"Sad dove of the dust, with tear-wet 

wings. 
Homeless and lone as the dove from its 

ark, — 
Do you reckon yon angel that tops St. 

Mark, 
That tops the tower, that tops the town. 
If he knew us two, if he knew all 

things, 
Would say, or think, you are worse 

than I? 
Do you reckon yon angel, now looking 

down. 
Far down like a star, he hangs so high. 
Could tell which one were the worse of 

us two ? 
Child of the street — it is not you! 

" If we two were dead, and laid side by 

side 
Eight here on the pavement, this very 

day. 
Here under the sun-flushed maiden sky. 
Where the morn flows in like a rosy tide. 
And the sweet Madonna that stands in 

the moon, 
With her crown of stars, just across the 

lagoon, 
Should come and should look upon you 

and I, — 
Do you reckon, my child, that she would 

decide 
As men do decide and as women do say, 
That you are so dreadful, and turn away? 

" If angels were sent to choose this 
day 
Between us two as we stand here. 
Here side by side in this storied place, — 



272 



A DOVE OF ST. MARK. 



If God's angels -were sent to choose, I 

say, 
This very moment the best of the two, 
You, white with a hunger and stain'd with 

a tear, 
Or I, the rover the wide world through, 
Restless and stormy as any sea, — 
Looking us two right straight in the 

face, 
Child of the street, he would not choose 

me. 

'• The fresh sun is falling on turret and 
tower. 
The far sun is flashing on spire and 
dome. 



The marbles of Venice are bursting to 

flower, 
The marbles of Venice are flower and 

foam: 
Good night and good morn; I must leave 

you now. 
There! bear my kiss on your pale, soft 

brow 
Through earth to heaven: and when we 

shall meet 
Beyond the darkness , poor waif of the 

street. 
Why, then I shall know you, my sad, 

sweet dove; 
Shall claim you, and kiss you, with the 

kiss of love." 




SUNSET AND DAWN IN SAN DIEGO. 273 



SUNSET AND DAWN IN SAN DIEGO. 

My city sits amid her palms; 
The perfume of her twilight breath 
Is so7nething as the sacred balms 
That bound sioeet Jesus after death, 
Such soft, warm twilight sense as lies 
Against the gates of Paradise. 

Such prayerful palms, wide palms upreached! 
This sea mist is as incense smoke, 
Yon ancient walls a sermon preached. 
White lily ivith a heart of oak. 
And 0, this twilight! the grace 
Of twilight on my lifted face ! 

I love you, tivilight, — love with love 
So loyal, loving, fond that I 
When folding these worn hands to die, 
Shall pray God lead me not above. 
But leave me, twilight, sad and true. 
To walk this lonesome world with you. 

Yea, God knows I have walked ivith night; 
I have not seen, I have not known 
Such light as beats tipon His throne. 
I know I could not bear such light; 
Therefore, I beg, sad sister true. 
To share your shadow-world with you. 

I love you, love you, maid of night. 
Your 2'>erfumed breath, your dreamful eyes. 
Your holy silences, your sighs 
Of mateless longing; your delight 
When night says. Hang on yon moon's horn 
Your russet goivn, and rest till morn. 



274 



SUNSET AND DAWN IN SAN DIEGO. 



The sun is dying; space and room, 
Serenity, vast sense of rest, 
Lie bosomed in the orange west 
Of orient waters. Hear the boom 
Of long, strong billows; wave on wave, 
Like funeral guns above a grave. 



Now night folds all; no sign or word; 
But still that rocking of the deep — 
Sweet mother, rock the world to sleep: 
Still rock and rock; as I have heard 
Sweet mother gently rock and rock 
The while she folds the little frock. 



Broad mesa, brown, bare mountains, 
brown, 
Bowed sky of brown, that erst was blue; 
Dark, earth-brown curtains coming down — 
Earth-brown, that all hues melt into; 
Brown twilight, born of light and shade; 
Of night that came, of light that passed. . . 
How like some lorn, majestic maid 
That wares not whither way at last! 



Now perfumed Night, sad-faced and far. 
Walks up the world in somber brown. 
Now suddenly a loosened star 
Lets all her golden hair fall down — 
And Night is dead Day's coffin-lid, 
With stars of gold shot through his pall. . . . 
I hear the chorus, katydid; 
A katydid, and that is all. 

Some star-tipt candles foot and head; 
Some perfumes of the perfumed sea; 
And now above the coffined dead 
Dusk draws great curtains lovingly; 
While far o'er all, so dreamful far, 
God's Southern Cross by faith is seen 
Tipt by one single blazing star, 
With spaces infinite between. 



Come, love His twilight, the perfume 
Of God's great trailing garment's hem; 
The sense of rest, the sense of room, 
The garnered goodness of the day. 
The twelve plucked hours of His tree. 
When all the world has gone its way 
And left perfection quite to me 
And Him who, loving, fashioned them. 



I know not why that wealth and pride 
Win not my heart or woo my tale. 
I only know I know them not; 
I only know to cast mj' lot 
Where love walks noiselessly with night 
And patient nature; my delight 
The wild rose of the mountain side, 
The lowly lily of the vale; 



To live not asking, just to live; 
To live not begging, just to be; 
To breathe God's presence in the dusk 
That drives out loud, assertive light — 
To never ask, but ever give; 
To love my noiseless mother, Night; 
Her vast hair moist with smell of musk. 
Her breath sweet with eternity. 



A hermit's path, a mountain's perch, 
A sandaled monk, a dying man— 
A far-off, low, adobe church. 
Below the hermit's orange-trees 
That cap the clouds above the seas, 
So far, its spire seems but a span. 



A low-voiced dove! The dying Don 
Put back the cross and sat dark-browed 
And sullen, as a dove flew out 
The bough, and circling round about, 
Was bathed and gathered in a cloud, 
That, like some ship, sailed on and on. 



SUNSET AND DAWN IN SAN DIEGO. 



275 



But let the gray monk tell the tale; 
And tell it just as told to me. 
This Don was chiefest of the vale 
That banks by San Diego's sea, 
And who so just, so generous, 
As he who now lay dying thus? 

But wrong, such shameless Saxon wrong, 
Had crushed his heart, had made him 

hate 
The sight, the very sound, of man. 
He loved the lonely wood-dove's song; 
He loved it as his living mate. 
And lo! the good monk laid a ban 
And penance of continual prayer — 
But list, the living, dying there! 



For now the end was, and he lay 
As day lies banked against the night — 
As lies some bark at close of day 
To wait the dew-born breath of night; 
To wait the ebb of tide, to wait 
The swift plunge throughthe Golden Gate: 



The plunge from bay to boundless sea — 
From life through narrow straits of night, 
From time to bright eternity — 
To everlasting walks of light. 
Some like as when you sudden blow 
Your candle out and turn you so 
To sleep unto the open day: 
And thus the priest did pleading say: 



"You fled my flock, and sought this 

steep 
And stony, star-lit, lonely height. 
Where weird and unnamed creatures keep 
To hold strange thought with things of 

night 
Long, long ago. But now at last 
Your life sinks surely to the past. 
Lay hold, lay hold, the cross I bring, 
Where all God's goodly creatures cling. 



"Yea! You are good. Dark-browed and 
low 
Beneath your shaggy brows you look 
On me, as you would read a book: 
And darker still your dark brows grow 
As I lift up the cross to pray. 
And plead with you to walk its way. 



" Yea, you are good! There is not one, 
From Tia Juana to the reach 
And bound of gray Pacific Beach, 
From Coronado's palm-set isle 
And palm-hung pathways, mile on mile, 
But speaks you, Sefior, good and true. 
But oh, my silent, dying son! 
The cross alone can speak for you 
When all is said and all is done. 



"Come! Turn your dim old eyes to me, 
Have faith and help me plant this cross 
Beyond where blackest billows toss, 
As you would plant some pleasant tree: 
Some fruitful orange-tree, and know 
That it shall surely grow and grow, 
As your own orange-trees have grown. 
And be, as they, your very own. 



"You smile at last, and pleasantly: 
You love your laden orange-trees 
Set high above your silver seas 
With your own honest hand; each tree 
A date, a day, a part, indeed. 
Of your own life, and walk, and creed. 

"You love your steeps, your star -set 
blue: 
You watch you billows flash, and toss, 
And leap, and curve, in merry rout, 
You love to hear them laugh and shout — 
Men say you hear them talk to you; 
Men say you sit and look and look, 
As one who reads some holy book — 
My son, come, look upon the cross? 



276 



SUNSET AND DAWN IN SAN DIEGO. 



"Come, see me plant amid your trees 
My cross, that you may see and know 
'T will surely grow, and grow, and grow, 
As grows some trusted little seed; 
As grows some secret, small good deed; 

The while you gaze upon your seas 

Sweet Christ, now let it grow, and bear 
Fair fruit, as your own fruit is fair. 

"Aye! ever from the first I knew. 
And marked its flavor, freshness, hue, 
The gold of sunset and the gold 
Of morn, in each rich orange rolled. 

"I mind me now, 't was long since, 
friend, 
When first I climbed your path alone, 
A savage path of brush and stone. 
And rattling serpents without end. 

•' Tea, years ago, when blood and life 
Kan swift, and your sweet, faithful wife — 
What! tears at last; hot, piteous tears 
That through your bony fingers creep 
The while you bend yoiir face, and weep 
As if your heart of hearts would break — 
As if these tears were your heart's blood, 
A pent-up, sudden, bursting flood — 
Look on the cross, for Jesus' sake." 



'T was night, and still it seemed not 
night. 
Yet, far down in the canon deep, 
Where night had housed all day, to keep 
Companion with the wolf, you might 
Have hewn a statue out of night. 

The shrill coyote loosed his tongue 
Deep in the dark arroyo's bed; 
And bat and owl above his head 
From out their gloomy caverns swung: 



A swoop of wings, a cat-like call, 
A crackle of sharp chaparral! 

Then sudden, fitful winds sprang out, 
And swept the mesa like a broom; 
Wild, saucy winds, that sang of room! 
That leapt the canon with a shout 
From dusty throats, audaciously 
And headlong tore into the sea. 
As tore the swine with lifted snout. 

Some birds came, went, then came again 
From out the hermit's wood-hung hill; 
Came swift, and arrow-like, and still, 
As you have seen birds, when the rain — 
The great, big, high-born rain, leapt white 
And sudden from a cloud like night. 

And then a dove, dear, nun-like dove, 
With eyes all tenderness, with eyes 
So loving, longing; full of love. 
That when she reached her slender throat 
And sang one low, soft, sweetest note. 
Just one, so faint, so far, so near. 
You could have wept with joy to hear. 

The old man, as if he had slept, 
Eaised quick his head, then bowed and 

wept 
For joy, to hear once more her voice. 
With childish joy he did rejoice; 
As one will joy to surely learn 
His dear, dead love is living still; 
As one will joy to know, in turn. 
He, too, is loved with love to kill. 

He put a hand forth, let it fall 
And feebly close; and that was all. 
And then he turned his tearful eyes 
To meet the priest's, and spake this wise:— 

Now mind, I say, not one more word 
That livelong night of nights was heard 



SUNSET AND DAWN IN SAN DIEGO. 



277 



By mouk or man, from dusk till dawn; 
And yet that man spake on and on. 

Why, know you not, soul speaks to soul? 
I say the use of words shall pass. 
Words are but fragments of the glass; 
But silence is the perfect whole. 

And thus the old man, bowed and wan. 
And broken in his body,, spake — 
Spake youthful, ardent, on and on, 
As dear love speaks for dear love's sake. 

'* You spake of her, my wife; behold! 
Behold my faithful, constant love! 
Nay, nay, you shall not doubt my dove. 
Perched there above your cross of gold! 

"Yea, you have books, I know, to tell 
Of far, fair heaven; but no hell 
To her had been bo terrible 
As all sweet heaven, with its gold 
And jasper gates, and great white throne, 
Had she been banished hence alone. 



"I say, not God himself could keep. 
Beyond the stars, beneath the deep. 
Or 'mid the stars, or 'mid the sea, 
Her soul from my soul one brief day. 
But she would find some pretty way 
To come and still companion me. 



"And say, where bide your souls, good 
priest? 
Lies heaven west, lies heaven east? 
Let us be frank, let us be fair; 
Where is your heaven, good priest, where? 

"Is there not room, is there not place 
In all those boundless realms of space? 
Is there not room in this sweet air, 



Koom 'mid mj"- trees, room anywhere, 
For souls that love us thus so well, 
And love so well this beauteous world, 
But that they must be headlong hurled 
Down, down, to undiscovered hell? 



"Good priest, we questioned not one 

word 
Of all the holy things we heard 
Down in your pleasant town of palms 
Long, long ago — sweet chants, sweet 

psalms. 
Sweet incense, and the solemn rite 
Above the dear, believing dead. 
Nor do I question here to-night 
One gentle word you may have said. 
I would not doubt, for one brief hour, 
Your word, your creed, your priestly 

power. 
Your purity, unselfish zeal. 
But there be fears I scorn to feel! 



" Let those who will, seek realms above, 
Eemote from all that heart can love, 
In their ignoble dread of hell. 
Give all, good priest, in charity; 
Give heaven to all, if this may be. 
And count it well, and very well. 



"But I— I could not leave this spot 
Where she is waiting by my side. 
Forgive me, priest; it is not pride; 
There is no God where she is not! 



"You did not know her well. Her 
creed 
Was yours; my faith it was the same. 
My faith was fair, my lands were broad. 
Far down where yonder palm-trees rise 
We two together worshiped God 
From childhood. And we grew in deed, 
Devout in heart as well as name, 
And loved our palm-set paradise. 



278 



SUNSET AND DAWN IN SAN DIEGO. 



"We loved, we loved all things on earth, 
However mean or miserable. 
We knew no thing that had not worth, 
And learned to know no need of hell. 



"Indeed, good priest, so much, indeed, 
We found to do, we saw to love, 
We did not always look above 
As is commanded in your creed, 
But kept in heart one chiefest care, 
To make this fair world still more fair. 



'•'Twas then that meek, pale Saxon 
came; 
With soulless gray and greedy eyes, 
A snake's eyes, cunning, cold, and wise, 
And I — I could not fight, or fly 
His crafty wiles, at all; and I — 
Enough, enough! I signed my name. 



" It was not loss of pleasure, place, 
Broad lands, or the serene delight 
Of doing good, that made long night 
O'er all the sunlight of her face. 
But there be little things that feed 
A woman's sweetness, day by day. 
That strong men miss not, do not need, 
But, shorn of all can go their way 
To battle, and but stronger grow, 
As grow great waves that gather so. 



" She missed the music, missed the 
song. 
The pleasant speech of courteous men. 
Who came and went, a comely throng. 
Before her open window, when 
The sea sang with us, and we two 
Had heartfelt homage, warm and true. 



" She missed the restfulness, the rest 
Of dulcet silence, the delight 
Of singing silence, when the town 



Piit on its twilight robes of brown; 
When twilight wrapped herself in night 
And couched against the curtained west. 

"But not one murmur, not one word 
From her sweet baby lips was heard. 
She only knew I could not bear 
To see sweet San Diego town. 
Her palm-set lanes, her pleasant square. 
Her people passing up and down. 
Without black hate, and deadly hate 
For him who housed within our gate. 
And so, she gently led my feet 
Aside to this high, wild retreat. 

'• How pale she grew, how piteous pale 
The while I wrought, and ceaseless 

wrought 
To keep my soul from bitter thought. 
And build me here above the vale. 
Ah me! my selfish, Spanish pride! 
Enough of pride, enough of hate. 
Enough of her sad, piteous fate: 
She died: right here she sank and died. 

" She died, and with her latest breath 
Did promise to return to me. 
As turns a dove unto her tree 
To find her mate at night and rest; 
Died, clinging close against my breast; 
Died, saying she would surely rise 
So soon as God had loosed her eyes 
From the strange wonderment of death. 

" How beautiful is death! and how 
Surpassing good, and true, and fair! 
How just is death, how gently just, 
To lay his sword against the thread 
Of life when life is surely dead 
And loose the sweet soul from the dust! 
I laid her in my lorn despair 
Beneath that dove, that orange-bough — 
How strange your cross should stand just 
there! 



SUMSET AND DAWN IN SAN DIEGO. 



279 



"And then I waited hours and days: 
Those bitter days, they were as years. 
My soul groped through the darkest ways; 
I scarce could see God's face for tears. 



"I clutched my knife, and I crept down, 
A wolf, to San Diego town. 
On, on, 'mid mine own palms once more. 
Keen knife in hand, I crept that night. 
1 passed the gate, then fled in fright; 
Black crape hung fluttered from the door! 

"I climbed back here, with heart of 
stone: 
I heard next morn one sweetest tone; 
Looked up, and lo! there on that bough 
She perched, as she sits perching now. 

" I heard the bells peal from my height, 
Peal pompously, peal piously; 
Saw sable hearse, in plumes of night 
With not one thought of hate in me. 



•'I watched the long train winding by, 
A mournful, melancholy lie — 
A sable, solemn, mourning mile — 
And only pitied him the while. 
For she, she sang that whole day through: 
Sad-voiced, as if she pitied, too. 



"They said, 'His work is done, and well.' 
They laid his body in a tomb 
Of massive splendor. It lies there 
In all its stolen pomp and gloom — 
But list! his soul — his soul is where? 
In hell! In hell! But where is hell? 



" Hear me but this. Year after year 
She trained my eye, she trained my ear; 
No book to blind my eyes, or ought 
To prate of hell, where hell is not, 



I came to know at last, and well, 
Such things as never book can tell. 

"And where was that poor, dismal soul 
Ye priests had sent to Paradise? 
I heard the long years roll and roll. 
As rolls the sea. My onco dimmed eyes 
Grew keen as long, sharp shafts of light. 
With eager eyes and reaching face 
I searched the stars night after night: 
That dismal soul was not in space! 

"Meanwhile my green trees grew and 
grew; 
And sad or glad, this much I knew, 
It were no sin to make more fair 
One spot on earth, to toil and share 
With man, or beast, or bird; while she 
Still sang her soft, sweet melody. 

"One day, a perfumed day in white — 
Such restful, fresh, and friendlike day, — 
Fair Mexico a mirage lay 
Far-lifted in a sea of light — 
Soft, purple light, so far away. 
I turned yon pleasant pathway down, 
And sauntered leisurely tow'rd town. 

" I heard my dear love call and coo, 
And knew that she was happy, too. 
In her sad, sweet, and patient pain 
Of waiting till I came again. 

"Aye, I was glad, quite glad at last; 
Not glad as I had been when she 
Walked with me by you palm-set sea, 
But sadly and serenely glad: 
As though 't were twilight like, as though 
You knew, and yet you did not know, 
That sadness, most supremely sad 
Should lay upon you like a pall. 
And would not, could not pass away 
Till you should pass; till perfect day 



28o 



SUNSET AND DAWN IN SAN DIEGO. 



Bawns sudden ou you, and the call 
Of birds awakens you to morn — 
A babe new-born; a soul new-born. 

"Good priest, what are the birds for? 
Priest, 
Build ye your heaven west or east ? 
Above, below, or anywhere? 
I onlj' ask, I only say 
She sits there, waiting for the day, 

The fair, full day to guide me there. 

* # » * * 

"What, he? That creature? Ah, quite 
true! 
I wander much, I weary you : 
I beg yoi;r pardon, gentle priest. 
Returning up the stone-strewn steep, 
Down in yon jungle, dank and deep. 
Where toads and venomed reptiles creep. 
There, there, I saw that hideous beast! 

"Aye, there! coiled there beside my 
road. 
Close coiled behind a monstrous toad, 
A huge flat-bellied reptile hid! 
His tongue leapt red as flame; his eyes. 
His eyes were burning hells of lies — 
His head was like a coffin's lid: 

•Saint George! Saint George! I gasped 
for breath. 
The beast, tight coiled, swift, sudden 

sprang 
High in the air, and, rattling, sang 
His hateful, hissing song of death! 

"My eyes met his. He shrank, he fell. 
Fell sullenly and slow. The swell 
Of braided, brassy neck forgot 
Its poise, and every venomed spot 
Lost luster, and the coffin head 
Cowed level with the toad, and lay 
Low, quivering with hate and dread: 
The while I kept my upward way. 

"What! Should have killed him? Nay, 
good priest. 



I know not what or where 's your hell. 

But be it west or be it east. 

His hell is there! and that is well! 

"Nay, do not, do not question me; 
I could not tell yoii why I know; 
I only know that this is so, 
As sure as God is equity. 

'■Good priest, forgive me, and good-by, 
The stars slow gather to their fold; 
I see God's garment's hem of gold 
Against the far, faint morning sky. 

" Good, holy priest, your God is where? 
You come to me with book and creed; 
I cannot read your book; I read 
Yon boundless, open book of air. 
What time, or way, or place I look, 
I see God in His garden walk; 
I hear Him through the thunders talk, 
As once He talked, with burning tongue. 
To Moses, when the world was young; 
And, priest, what more is in your book? 

"Behold! the Holy Grail is found, 
Found in each poppy's cup of gold; 
And God walks with us as of old. 
Behold! the burning bush still burns 
For man, whichever way he turns; 
And all God's earth is holy ground. 

"And — and — good priest, bend low your 
head. 
The sands are crumbling where I tread, 
Beside the shoreless, soundless sea. 
Good priest, you came to pray, you said; 
And now, what would you have of me? " 

The good priest gently raised his head. 
Then bowed it low and softly said: 
"Your blessing, son, despite the ban." 
He fell before the dying man; 
And when he raised his face from prayer, 
Sweet Dawn, and two sweet doves were 
there. 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



281 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 

SONG FIRST. 
" In the beginning God " 

When Ood's Spirit moved upon 
The waters' face, and vapors curled 
Like incense o'er deep-cradled datvn 
That dared not yet the mobile world, — 

When deep-cradled dawn uprose, 
Ere the baby stars icere born. 
When the end of all repose 
Came with that first wondrous morn, — 

In the morning of the ivorld 
When light leapt, — a giant born: 
that morning of the world. 
That vast, first tumultuous morn ! 



PART FIRST. 



What is there in a dear dove's eyes, 
Or voice of mated melodies, 
That tells us ever of blue skies 
And cease of deluge on Love's seas? 
The dove looked down on Jordan's tide 
Well pleased with Christ the Crucified; 
The dove was hewn in Karnak stone 
Before fair Jordan's banks were known. 
The dove has such a patient look, 
I read rest in her pretty eyes 
As in the Holy Book. 

I think if I should love some day — 
And may I die when dear Love dies — 
Why, I would sail Francisco's Bay 
And seek to see some sea-dove's eyes: 
To see her in her air-biailt nest, 



Her wide, warm, restful wings at rest; 

To see her rounded neck reach out, 

Her eyes lean lovingly about; 

And seeing this as love can see, 

I then should know, and surely know, 

That love sailed on with me. 



See once this boundless bay and live. 
See once this beauteous bay and love. 
See once this warm, bright bay and give 
God thanks for olive branch and dove. 
Then plunge headlong yon sapphire sea 
And sail and sail the world with me. 
Some isles, drowned in the drowning 

sun. 
Ten thousand sea-doves voiced as one; 
Lo! love's wings furled and wings un- 
furled; 



282 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



Who sees not this -warm, half-world sea, 
Bees not, knows not the world. 

How knocks he at the Golden Gate, 
This lord of waters, strong and bold, 
And fearful-voiced and fierce as fate, 
And hoar and old, as Time is old; 
Yet young as when God's finger lay 
Against Night's forehead that first day. 
And drove vast Darkness forth, and rent 
The waters from the firmament. 
Hear how he knocks and raves and loves! 
He wooes us through the Golden Gate 
With all his soft sea-doves. 

Now on and on, up, down, and on, 
The sea is oily grooves; the air 
Is as your bride's sweet breath at dawn 
When all your ardent youth is there. 
And oh, the rest! and oh, the room! 
And oh, the sensuous sea perfume! 
Yon new moon peering as we passed 
Has scarce escaped our topmost mast. 
A porpoise, wheeling restlessly. 
Quick draws a bright, black, dripping 

blade. 
Then sheathes it in the sea. 



Vast, half-world, wondrous sea of ours! 
Dread, unknown deep of all sea deeps! 
What fragrance from thy strange sea- 
flowers 
Deep-gardened where God's silence keeps! 
Thy song is silence, and thy face 
Is God's face in His holy place. 
Thy billows swing sweet censer foam. 
Where stars hang His cathedral's dome. 
SiTch blue above, below such blue! 
These burly winds so tall, they can 
Scarce walk between the two. 

Such room of sea! Such room of skj'! 
Such room to draw a soul-full breath! 
Such room to live! Siich room to die! 



Such room to roam in after death! 
White room, with sapphire room set 

'round, 
And still beyond His room profound; 
Such room-bound boundlessness o'erhead 
As never has been writ or said 
Or seen, save by the favored few. 
Where kings of thought play chess with 

stars 
Across their board of blue. 



The proud ship wrapped her in the red 
That hung from heaven, then the gray. 
The soft dove-gray that shrouds the dead 
And prostrate form of perfumed day: 
Some noisy, pigmy creatures kept 
The deck a spell, then, leaning, crept 
Apart in silence and distrust, 
Then down below in deep disgust. 
An albatross, — a shadow cross 
Hung at the head of buried day, — 
At foot the albatross. 



Then came a warm, soft, sultry breath — 
A weary wind that wanted rest; 
A breath as from some house of death 
With flowers heaped; as from the breast 
Of such sweet princess as had slept 
Some thousand years embalmed, and kept, 
In fearful Karuak's tomb-hewn hill. 
Her perfume and spiced sweetness still, — 
Such breath as bees droop down to meet, 
And creep along lest it may melt 
Their honey-laden feet. 

The captain's trumpet smote the air! 
Swift men, like spiders up a thread. 
Swept suddenly. Then masts were bare 
As when tall poplars' leaves are shed. 
And ropes were clamped and stays were 

clewed. 
'T was as when wrestlers, iron-thewed. 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



283 



Gird tight their loins, take full breath, 
Aud set firm face, as fronting death. 
Three small brown birds, or gray, so 

small, 
So ghostly still and swift they passed, 
They scarce seemed birds at all. 



Then quick, keen saber-cuts, like ice; 
Then sudden hail, like battle-shot. 
Then two last men crept down like mice. 
And man, poor pigmy man, was not. 
The great ship shivered, as with cold — 
An instant staggered back, then bold 
As Theodosia, to her waist 
In waters, stood erect and faced 
Black thunder; and she kept her way 
And laughed red lightning from her face 
As on some gala daj'. 

The black sea-horses rode in row; 
Their white maues tossing to the night 
But made the blackness blacker grow 
From flashing, phosphorescent light. 
And how like hurdle steeds they leapt! 
The low moon burst; the black troop 

swept 
Eight through her hollow, on and on. 
A wave-wet simitar was drawn, 
Flashed twice, flashed thrice triumphantly, 
But still the steeds dashed on, dashed on, 
And drowned her in the sea. 



What headlong winds that lost their way 
At sea, aud wailed out for the shore! 
How shook the orient doors of day 
With all this mad, tumultuous roar! 
Black clouds, shot through with stars of 

red; 
Strange stars, storm-born and fire fed; 
Lost stars that came, aud went, and came; 
Such stars as never yet had name. 



The far sea-lions on their isles 
Upheaved their huge heads terrified, 
And moaned a thousand miles. 

What fearful battle-field! What space 
For light and darkness, flame and flood! 
Lo! Light aud Darkness, face to face, 
In battle harness battling stood! 
And how the surged sea burst upon 
The granite gates of Oregon! * 
It tore, it tossed the seething spume. 
And wailed for room! aud room! aud room! 
It shook the crag-built eaglets' nest 
Until they screamed from out their clouds, 
Then rocked them back to rest. 

How fiercely reckless raged the war! 
Then suddenly no ghost of light. 
Or even glint of storm-born star. 
Just night, and black, torn bits of night; 
Just night, and midnight's middle noon, 
With all mad elements in tune; 
Just night, aud that continuous roar 
Of wind, wiud, night, aud nothing more. 
Then all the hollows of the main 
Sank down so deep, it almost seemed 
The seas were hewn in twain. 

How deep the hollows of this deep! 
How high, how trembling high the crest! 
Ten thousand miles of surge and sweep 
And length and breadth of billow's breast! 
Up! up, as if against the skies! 
Down! down, as if no more to rise! 
The creaking wallow in the trough, 
As if the world was breaking off". 
The pigmies in their trough down there! 
Deep in their trough they tried to pray — 
To hide from God in prayer. 

Then boomed Alaska's great, first gun 
In battling ice and rattling hail; 



* There is a small granite island, or great rock standing on pillars, eight miles off Cape Blanco. Fishermen 
may row their boats between these columns and they call the rock The Gates. 



284 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



Then Indus came, four winds in one! 
Then came Japan in counter mail 
Of mad cross winds; and Waterloo 
Was but as some babe's tale unto. 
The typhoon spun his toy in play 
And whistled as a glad boy may 
To see his top spin at his feet: 
The captain on his bridge in ice, 
His sailors mailed in sleet. 



What unchained, unnamed noises, 
space! 
What shoreless, boundless, rounded reach 
Of room was here! Fit field, fit place 
For three fierce emperors, where each 
Came armed with elements that make 
Or unmake seas and lands, that shake 
The heavens' roof, that freeze or burn 
The seas as they may please to turn. 
And such black silence! Not a sound 
Save whistling of that mad, glad boy 
To see his top spin round. 



Then swift, like some sulked Ajax, burst 
Thewed Thunder from his battle-tent; 
As if in pent-up, vengeful thirst 
For blood, the elements of Earth were rent. 
And sheeted crimson lay a wedge 
Of blood below black Thunder's edge. 
A pause. Thetyphoon turned, upwheeled. 
And wrestled Death till heaven reeled. 
Then Lightning reached a fiery red, 
And on Death's fearful forehead wrote 
The autograph of God. 



God's name and face — what need of 
more? 
Morn came: calm came; and holy light, 
And waarm, sweet weather, leaning o'er. 
Laid perfumes on the tomb of night. 
The three wee birds came dimly back 
And housed about the mast in black, 



And all the tranquil sense of morn 
Seemed as Dakota's fields of corn, 
Save that some great soul-breaking sigh 
Now sank the proud ship out of sight 
Now sent her to the sky. 



One strong, strange man had kept the 

deck — 
One silent, seeing man, who knew 
The pulse of Nature, and could reck 
Her deepest heart-beats through and 

through. 
He knew the night, he loved the night. 
When elements went forth to fight 
His soul went with them without fear 
To hear God's voice, so few will hear 
The swine had plunged them in the sea, 
The swine down there, but up on deck 
The captain, God and he. 



And oh, such sea-shell tints of light 
High o'er those wide sea-doors of dawn! 
Sail, sail the world for that one sight, 
Then satisfied, let time begone. 
The ship rose up to meet that light. 
Bright candles, tipped like tasseled corn, 
The holy virgin, maiden morn. 
Arrayed in woven gold and white. 
Put by the harp — hush minstrelsy; 
Nor bard or bird has yet been heard 
To sing this scene, this sea. 



Such light! such liquid, molten light! 
Such mantling, healthful, heartful morn! 
Such morning born of such mad night! 
Such night as never had been born! 
The man caught in his breath, his face 
Was lifted up to light and space; 
His hand dashed o'er his brow, as when 
Deep thoughts submerge the souls of men; 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



285 



And then he bowed, bowed mute, appalled 
At memory of scenes, such scenes 
As this swift morn recalled. 



He sought the ship's prow, as men seek 
The utmost limit for their feet, 
To lean, look forth, to list nor speak, 
Nor turn aside, nor yet retreat 
One inch from this far vantage-ground, 
Till he had pierced the dread profound 
And proved it false. And yet he knew 
Deep in his earth that all was true; 
So like it was to that first dawn 
When God had said, " Let there be light," 
And thus he spake right on: 

''My soul was born ere light was born, 
When blackness was, as this black night. 
And then that morn, as this sweet morn! 
That sudden light, as this swift light! 
I had forgotten. Now, I know 
The travail of the world, the low, 
Dull creatures in the sea of slime 
That time committed unto time. 
As great men plant oaks patiently, 
Then turn in silence unto dust 
And wait the coming tree. 

"That long, lorn blackness, seams of 
flame. 
Volcanoes bursting from the slime, 
Huge, shapeless monsters without name 
Slow shaping in the loom of time; 
Slow weaving as a weaver weaves; 
So like as when some good man leaves 
His acorns to the centuries 
And waits the stout aucestral trees. 
But ah, so piteous, memory 
Keels back, as sickened, from that scene — 
It breaks the heart of me! 



"Volcanoes crying out for light! 
The very slime found tongues of fire!* 
Huge monsters climbing in their might 
O'er submerged monsters in the mire 
That heaved their slimy mouths, and cried 
And cried for light, and crying, died. 
How all that wailing through the air 
But seems as some unbroken prayer. 
One ceaseless prayer that long night 
The world lay in the loom of time 
And waited so for light! 



" And I, amid those monsters there, 
A grade above, or still below ? 
Nay, Time has never time to care; 
And I can scarcely dare to know. 
I but remember that one prayer; 
Ten thousand wide mouths in the air. 
Ten thousand monsters in their might, 
All eyeless, looking up for light. 
We prayed, we prayed as never man, 
By sea or land, by deed or word. 
Has prayed since light began. 

"Great sea-cows laid their fins upon 
Low-floating isles, as good priests lay 
Two holy hands, at early dawn, 
Upon the altar cloth to pray. 
Aye, ever so, with lifted head, 
Poor, slime-born creatures and slime-bred, 
We prayed. Our sealed-up eyes of night 
All lifting, lifting up for light. 
And I have paused to wonder, when 
This world will pray as we then prayed. 
What God may not give men! 

"Hist! Oncelsaw, — What wasi then? 
Ah, dim and devious the light 
Comes back, but I was not of men. 
And it is only such black night 



* I saw this when with Capt. Eads at the mouth of our great river. The' debris of more than a dozen States 
pouring into the wann waters of the Mexican seas creates fermentation which finds expression in volcanoes that 
spring flaming up out of the sea ahnost nightly. I know nothing so terrible as certain nights in the Mississippi 
delta. 



286 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



As this, that was of war and strife 
Of elements, can wake that life, 
That life in death, that black and cold 
And blind and loveless life of old. 
But hear! I saw — heed this and learn 
How old, how holy old is Love, 
However Time may turn: 

"I saw, I saw, or somehow felt, 
A sea-cow mother nurse her young. 
I saw, and with thanksgiving knelt. 
To see her head, low, loving, hung 
Above her nursling. Then the light, 
The lovelight from those eyes of night! 
I say to you 't was lovelight then 
That first lit up the eyes of men. 



I say to you lovelight was born 
Ere God laid hand to clay of man, 
Or ever that first morn. 

" What though a monster slew her so. 
The while she bowed and nursed her 

young? 
She leaned her head to take the blow, 
And dying, still the closer clung — 
And dying gave her life to save 
The helpless life she erstwhile gave. 
And so sank back below the slime, 
A torn shred in the loom of time. 
The one thing more I needs must say, 
That monster slew her and her young; 
But Love he could not slay." 




SAPPHO AND PHAON. 287 



SONG SECOND. 

"And God said, Let there be light." 

Hise up! Hoxo brief this little day? 

We can but kindle some dim light 
Here in the darkened, wooded way 
Before the gathering of night. 
Come, let us kindle it. The dawn 
Shall find us tenting farther on. 
Come, let us kindle ere we go — 

We knoio not ivhere; bnt this we know. 
Night cometh on, and man needs light. 
Come! camp-fire embers, ere we grope 

Yon gray archway of night. 

Life is so brief, so very brief, 
So rounded in, we scarce can see 
The fruitage grown about the leaf 
And foliage of a single tree 
In all God's garden; yet we knoio 
That goodly fruits must grow and grow 
Beyond our vision. We but stand 
In some deep hollow of God^s hand. 
Hear some siveet bird its little day. 
See cloud and sun a season pass, 
And then, sweet friend, away! 

Clouds pass, they come again; and wc. 
Are we, then, less than these to God? 
Oh, for the stout faith of a tree 
That drops its small seeds to the sod. 
Safe in the liolloio of God's hand, 
And knoios that perish from the land 
It shall not ! Yea, this much toe know, 
T'hat each, as best it can, shall groio 
As God has fashioned, fair or plain, 
To do its best, or cloud or sun. 
Or in His still, small rain. 



288 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



Oh, good to see is faith in God! 
But better far is faith in good: 
The one seems but a sign, a nod, 
The one seems God's own flesh and blood. 
How many names of God are sung! 
But good is good in every tongue. 
And this the light, the Holy Light 
That leads thro' night and night and night; 
Thro' nights named Death, that lie between 
The days named Life, the ladder round 
Unto the Infinite Unseen. 



PART SECOND. 



The man stood silent, peering past 
His utmost verge of memory. 
What lay beyond, beyond that vast 
Bewildering darkness and dead sea 
Of noisome vapors and dread night? 
No light! not any sense of light 
Beyond that life when Love was born 
On that first, far, dim rim of morn: 
No light beyond that beast that clung 
In darkness by the light of love 
And died to save her young. 

And yet we know life must have been 
Before that dark, dread life of pain; 
Life germs, love germs of gentle men. 
So small, so still; as still, small rain. 
But whence this life, this living soul, 
This germ that grows a godlike whole? 
I can bi;t think of that sixth day 
When God first set His hand to clay. 
And did in His own image plan 
A perfect form, a manly form, 
A comely, godlike man. 



Did soul germs grow down in the deeps. 
The while God's Spirit moved upon 
The waters ? High-set Lima keeps 



A rose-path, like a ray of dawn; 
And simple, pious peons say 
Sweet Santa Eosa passed that way; 
And so, because of her fair fame 
And saintly face, these roses came. 
Shall we not say, ere that first morn. 
Where God moved, garmented in mists, 
Some sweet soul germs were born? 



The strange, strong man still kept the 
prow ; 
He saw, still saw before light was. 
The dawn of love, the huge sea-cow. 
The living slime, love's deathless laws. 
He knew love lived, lived ere a blade 
Of grass, or ever light was made; 
And love was in him, of him, as 
The light was on the sea of glass. 
It made his heart great, and he grew 
To look on God all unabashed; 
To look lost eons through. 



Illuming love! what talisman! 
That Word which makes the world go 

'roiind! 
That Word which bore worlds in its plan! 
That Word which was the Word profound! 
That Word which was the great First 

Cause, 



i 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



289 



Before light was, before sight was! 
I would not barter love for gold 
Enough to fill a tall ship's hold; 
Nay, not for great Victoria's worth- 
So great the sun sets not upon 
In all his round of earth. 



I would not barter love for all 
The silver spilling from the moon; 
I would not barter love at all 
Though you should coin each afternoon 
Of gold for centuries to be, 
And count the coin all down as free 
As conqueror fresh home from wars, — 
Coin sunset bars, coin heaven-born stars, 
Coin all below, coin all above, 
Count all down at my feet, yet I — 
I would not barter love. 



The lone man started, stood as when 
A strong man hears, yet does not hear. 
He raised his hand, let fall, and then 
Quick arched his hand above his ear 
And leaned a little; yet no sound 
Broke through the vast, serene profound. 
Man's soul first knew some telephone 
In sense and language all its own. 
The tall man heard, yet did not hear; 
He saw, and yet he did not see 
A fair face near and dear. 



For there, half hiding, crouching there 
Against the capstan, coils on coils 
Of rope, some snow still in her hair, 
Like Time, too eager for his spoils. 
Was such fair face raised to his face 
As only dream of dreams give place; 
Such shyness, boldness, sea-shell tint, 
Such book as only God may print, 
Such tender, timid, holy look 
Of startled love and trust and hope, — 
A gold-bound story-book. 



And while the great ship rose and fell, 
Or rocked or rounded with the sea, 
He saw, — a little thing to tell. 
An idle, silly thing, maybe, — 
Where her right arm was bent to clasp 
Her robe's fold in some closer clasp, 
A little isle of melting snow 
That round about and to and fro 
And up and down kept eddying. 
It told so much, that idle isle. 
Yet such a little thing. 



It told she, too, was of a race 
Born ere the baby stars were born; 
She, too, familiar with God's face. 
Knew folly but to shun and scorn; 
She, too, all night had sat to read 
By heaven's light, to hear, to heed 
The awful voice of God, to grow 
In thought, to see, to feel, to know 
The harmony of elements 
That tear and toss the sea of seas 
To foam-built battle-tents. 



He saw that drifting isle of snow. 
As some lorn miner sees bright gold 
Seamed deep in quartz, and joys to know 
That here lies hidden wealth untold. 
And now his head was lifted strong. 
As glad men lift the head in song. 
He knew she, too, had spent the night 
As he, in all that wild delight 
Of tuneful elements; she, too, 
He knew, was of that olden time 
Ere oldest stars were new. 



Her soul's ancestral book bore date 
Beyond the peopling of the moon, 
Beyond the day when Saturn sate 
lu royal cincture, and the boon 
Of light and life bestowed on stars 
And satellites; ere martial Mars 



290 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



Waxed red with battle rage, and shook 
The porch of heaven with a look; 
Ere polar ice-shafts propt gaunt earth, 
And slime was bvit the womb of time, 
That knew not yet of birth. 



To be what thou wouldst truly be, 
Be bravely, truly, what thou art. 
The acorn houses the huge tree, 
And patient, silent bears its part. 
And bides the miracle of time. 
For miracle, and more sublime 
It is than all that has been writ. 
To see the great oak grow from it. 
But thus the soul grows, grows the heart, - 
To be what thou wouldst truly be, 
Be truly what thou art. 



To be what thou wovildst truly be, 
Be true. God's finger sets each seed, 
Or when or where we may not see; 
But God shall nourish to its need 
Each one, if but it dares be true; 
To do what it is set to do. 
Thy proud soul's heraldry? 'T is writ 
In every gentle action; it 
Can never be contested. Time 
Dates thy brave soul's ancestral book 
From thy first deed sublime. 



Wouldst learn to know one little flower. 
Its perfume, perfect form and hue? 
Yea, wouldst thou have one perfect hour 
Of all the years that come to you ? 
Then grow as God hath planted, grow 
A lordly oak or daisy low. 
As He hath set His garden; be 
Just what thou art, or grass or tree. 
Thy treasures i;p in heaven laid 
Await thy sure ascending soul. 
Life after life, — be not afraid! 



Woiildst know the secrets of the soil? 
Wouldst have Earth bare her breast to 

you? 
Wouldst know the sweet rest of hard toil? 
Be true, be true, be ever true! 
Ah me, these self-made cuts of wrong 
That hew men down! Behold the strong 
And comely Adam bound with lies 
And banished from his paradise! 
The serpent on his belly still 
Eats dirt through all his piteous days. 
Do penance as he will. 

Poor, heel-bruised, prostrate, tortuous 
snake! 
What soul crawls here upon the ground ? 
God willed this soul at birth to take 
The round of beauteous things, the round 
Of earth, the round of boundless skies. 
It lied, and lo! how low it lies! 
What quick, sleek tongue to lie with here! 
Wast thou a broker but last year? 
Wast known to fame, wast rich and proud ? 
Didst live a lie that thou mightst die 
With pockets in thy shroud? 



Be still, be pitiful! that soul 
May yet be rich in peace as thine. 
Yea, as the shining ages roll 
That rich man's soul may rise and shine 
Beyond Orion; yet may reel 
The Pleiades with belts of steel 
That compass commerce in their reach; 
May learn and learn, and learning, teach, 
The while his soul grows grandly old. 
How nobler far to share a crust 
Than hoard car-loads of gold! 

XI. 

Oh, but to know; to surely know 
How strangely beautiful is light! 
How just one gleam of light will glow 



^ 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



291 



And grow more beautifully bright 
Than all the gold that ever lay 
Below the wide-arched Milky Way! 
"Let there be light!" and lo! the burst 
Of light in answer to the first 
Command of high Jehovah's voice! 
Let there be light for man to-night, 
That all men may rejoice. 

XII. 

The little isle of ice and snow 
That in her gathered garment lay, 
And dashed and drifted to and fro 
Unhindered of her, went its wa3\ 
The while the warm winds of Japan 
Were with them, and the silent man 
Stood by her, saying, hearing naught, 
Yet seeing, noting all; as one 
Sees not, yet all day sees the sun. 
He knew her silence, heeded well 
Her dignity of idle hands 
In this deep, tranquil spell. 



The true soul surely knows its own. 
Deep down in this man's heart he knew, 
Somehow, somewhere along the zone 
Of time, his soul should come unto 
Its safe seaport, some pleasant land 
Of rest where .she should reach a hand. 
He had not questioned God. His care 
Was to be worthy, fit to share 
The glory, peace, and perfect rest. 
Come how or when or where it comes, 
As God in time sees best. 

Her face reached forward, not to him. 
But forward, upward, as for light; 
For light that lay a silver rim 
Of sea-lit whiteness more than white. 
The vast full morning poured and spilled 
Its splendor down, and filled and filled 
And overfilled the heaped-up sea 
With silver molten suddenly. 



The night lay trenched in her meshed 

hair; 
The tint of sea-shells left the sea 
To make her more than fair. 

What massed, what matchless midnight 
hair! 
Her wide, sweet, sultry, drooping mouth, 
As droops some flower when the air 
Blows odors from the ardent South — 
That Sapphic, sensate, bended bow 
Of deadly archery; as though 
Love's legions fortressed there and sent 
Bed arrows from his bow fell bent. 
Such apples! such sweet fruit concealed 
Of perfect womanhood make more 
Sweet pain than if revealed. 

XIV. 

How good a thing it is to house 
Thy full heart treasures to that day 
When thou shalt take her, and carouse 
Thenceforth with her for aye and aye; 
How good a thing to give the store 
That thus the thousand years or more, 
Poor, hungered, holy worshiper. 
You kept for her, and only her! 
How well with all thy wealth to wait 
Or year, or thousand thousand years, 
Her coming at love's gate! 



The winds pressed warm from warm 
Japan 
Upon her pulsing womanhood. 
They fanned such fires in the man 
His face shone glory where he stood. 
In Persia's rose-fields, I have heard, 
There sings a sad, sweet, one-winged bird; 
Sings ever sad in lonely round 
Until his one- winged mate is found; 
And then, side laid to side, they rise 
So swift, so strong, they even dare 
The doorway of the skies. 



292 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



How rich was he! how richer she! 
Such treasures \ap in heaven laid, 
Where moth and rust may never be, 
Nor thieves break in, or make afraid. 
Such treasures, where the tranquil soul 
Walks space, nor limit nor control 
Can know, biit journeys on and on 
Beyond the golden gates of dawn; 
Beyond the outmost round of Mars; 
Where God's foot rocks the cradle of 
His new-born baby stars. 



As one who comes upon a street, 
Or sudden turn in pleasant path. 
As one who suddenly may meet 
Some scene, some sound, some sense that 

hath 
A memory of olden days, 
Of days that long have gone their ways. 
She caught her breath, caught quick and 

fast 
Her breath, as if her whole life passed 
Before, and pendant to and fro 
Swung in the air before her eyes; 
And oh, her heart beat so! 

How her heart beat! Three thousand 
years 
Of weary, waiting womanhood. 
Of folded hands, of falling tears. 
Of lone soul-wending through dark wood; 
But now at last to meet once more 
Upon the bright, all-shining shore 
Of earth, in life's resplendent dawn, 
And he so fair to look upon! 
Tall Phaon and the world aglow! 
Tall Phaon, favored of the gods, 
And oh, her heart beat so! 

Her heart beat so, no word she spake; 
She pressed her palms, she leaned her 
face, — 



Her heart beat so, its beating brake 
The cord that held her robe in place 
About her wondrous, rounded throat, 
And in the warm winds let it float 
And fall upon her soft, round arm. 
So warm it made the morning warm. 
Then pink and pearl forsook her cheek, 
And, "Phaon, I am Sappho, I — " 
Nay, nay, she did not speak. 

And was this Sappho, she who sang 
When mournful Jeremiah wept ? 
When harps, where weeping willows hang. 
Hung mute and all their music kept? 
Aye, this was Sappho, she who knew 
Such witchery of song as drew 
The war-like world to hear her sing, 
As moons draw mad seas following. 
Aye, this was Sappho; Lesbos hill 
Had all been hers, and Tempos vale, 
And song sweet as to kill. 

Her dark Greek eyes turned to the sea: 
Lo, Phaon's ferry as of old ! 
He kept his boat's prow still, and he 
Was stately, comely, strong, and bold 
As when he ferried gods, and drew 
Immortal youth from one who knew 
His scorn of gold. The Lesbian shore 
Lay yonder, and the rocky roar 
Against the promontory told. 
Told and retold her tale of love 
That never can grow old. 

Three thousand years! yet love was 
young 
And fair as when ^olis knew 
Her glory, and her great soul strung 
The harp that still sweeps ages through. 
Ionic dance or Doric war. 
Or purpled dove or dulcet car. 
Or unyoked dove or close-yoked dove, 
What meant it all but love and love ? 
And at the naming of Love's name 
She raised her eyes, and lo! her doves! 
Just as of old they came. 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 293 



SONG THIRD. 

"And God saw the light that it was good." 

/ heard a tale long, long ago, 
Where I had gone apart to pray 
By Shasta's pyramid of snow. 
That touches me unto this day. 
I know the fashion is to say 
An Arab tale, an Orient lay; 
Bui when the grocer rings my gold 
On counter, flung from greasy hold. 
He cares not from Acadian vale 
It comes, or savage mountain chine; — 
But this the Shastan tale: 

Once in the olden, golden days, 
When men and beasts companioned, when 
All went in peace about their ways 
Nor God had hid His face from men 
Because man slew his brother beast 
To make his most unholy feast, 
A gray coyote, monkish cowled, 
Upraised his face and wailed and howled 
The while he made his patient round; 
For lo! the red men all lay dead. 
Stark, frozen on the ground. 

The very dogs had fled the storm, 
A mother with her long, meshed hair 
Bound tight about her baby's form, 
Lay frozen, all her body bare. 
Her last shred held her babe in place; 
Her last breath loarmed her baby's face. 
Then, as the good monk brushed the snow 
Aside from mother loving so, 
He heard God from the mount above 
Speak through the clouds and loving say: 
" Yea, all is dead but Love." 



294 SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



" Now take up Love and cherish her, 
And seek the white man with all speed. 
And keep Love warm within thy fur; 
For oh, he needeth love indeed. 
Take all and give him freely, all 
Of love you find, or great or small; 
For he is very poor in this. 
So poor he scarce knows what love is." 
The gray monk raised Love in his paws 
And sped, a ghostly streak of gray. 
To ivhere the ivhite man was. 

But man uprose, enraged to see 
A gaunt wolf track his new-hewn town. 
He called his dogs, and angrily 
He brought his flashing rifle down. 
Then God said: " On his hearthstone lay 
The seed of Love, and come away; 
The seed of Love, 't is needed so. 
And pray that it may grow and grow." 
And so the gray monk crept at night 
And laid Love down, as God had said, 
A faint and feeble light. 

So faint, indeed, the cold hearthstone 
It seemed would chill starved Love to death; 
And so the monk gave all his own 
And crouched and fanned it with his breath 
Until a red cock crowed for day. 
Then God said: "Rise up, come away." 
The beast obeyed, but yet looked back 
All morn along his lonely track; 
For he had left his all in all, 
His oiun Love, for that famished Love 
Seemed so exceeding small. 

And God said: " Look not back again." 
But ever, ivhere a campflre burned. 
And he beheld strong, burly vien 
At meat, he sat him down and turned 
His face to wail and ivail and mourn 
The Love laid on that cold hearthstone. 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



295 



Then God was angered, and God said: 
"Be thou a beggar then; thy head 
Hath been a fool, but thy swift feet. 
Because they bore sioeet Love, shall be 
The fleetest of all fleet.'' 

And ever still about the camp. 
By chine or plain, in heat or hail, 
A homeless, hungry, hounded tramp. 
The gaunt coyote keeps his wail. 
And ever as he wails he turns 
His head, looks back and yearns and yearns 
For lost Love, laid that wintry day 
To warm a hearthstone far away. 
Poor loveless, homeless beast, I keep 
Your lost Love warm for you, and, too, 
A canon cool and deep. 



PAET THIRD. 



And they sailed on; the sea-doves sailed, 
And Love sailed with them. And there lay 
Such peace as never had prevailed 
On earth since dear Love's natal day. 
Great black-backed whales blew bows in 

clouds, 
Wee sea-birds flitted throxigh the shrouds. 
A wide-winged, amber albatross 
Blew by, and bore his shadow cross. 
And seemed to hang it on the mast, 
The while he followed far behind, 
The great ship flew so fast. 



She questioned her if Phaou knew, 
If he could dream, or halfway guess 
How she had tracked the ages through 
And trained her soul to gentleness 
Through many lives, through every part 
To make her worthy his great heart. 
Would Phaon turn and fly her still. 
With that fierce, proud, imperious will, 
And scorn her still, and still despise? 



She shuddered, turned aside her face, 
And lo, her sea-dove"s eyes! 



Then days of rest and restful nights; 
And love kept tryst as true love will, 
The prow their trysting-place. Delights 
Of silence, simply sitting still,— 
Of asking nothing, saying naught; 
For all that they had ever sought 
Sailed with them; words or deeds had been 
Impertinence, a selfish sin. 
And oh, to know how sweet a thing 
Is silence on those restful seas 
When Love's dove folds her wing! 



The great sea slept. In vast repose 
His pillowed head half-hidden lay, 
Half-drowned in dread Alaskan snows 
That stretch to where no man can say. 
His huge arms tossed to left, to right, 
Where black woods, banked like bits of 

night. 
As sleeping giants toss their arms 



296 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



At night about their fearful forms. 

A slim canoe, a night-bird's call, 

Some gray sea-doves, just these and Love, 

And Love indeed was all! 



Far, far away such cradled Isles 
As Jason dreamed and Argos sought 
Surge up from endless watery miles! 
And thou, the pale high priest of thought. 
The everlasting throned king 
Of fair Samoa! Shall I bring 
Sweet sandal-wood ? Or shall I lay 
Bich wreaths of California's bay 
From sobbing maidens? Stevenson, 
Sleep well. Thy work is done; well done! 
So bravely, bravely done! 



And Molokia's lord of love 
And tenderness, and piteous tears 
For stricken man! Go forth, O dove! 
With olive branch, and still the fears 
Of those he meekly died to save. 
They shall not perish. From that grave 
Shall grow such healing! such as He 
Gave stricken men by Galilee. 
Great ocean cradle, cradle, keep 
These two, the chosen of thy heart, 
Kocked in sweet, baby sleep. 



Fair land of flowers, land of flame, 
Of sun-born seas, of sea-born clime. 
Of clouds low shepherded and tame 
As white pet sheep at shearing time, 
Of great, white, generous high-born rain, 
Of rainbows builded not in vain — 
Of rainbows builded for the feet 
Of love to pass dry-shod and fleet 
From isle to isle, when smell of musk 
'Mid twilight is, and one lone star 
Sits in the brow of dusk. 



Oh, dying, sad-voiced, sea-born maid! 
And plundered, dying, still sing on. 
Thy breast against the thorn is laid— 
Sing on, sing on, sweet dying swan. 
How pitiful! And so despoiled 
By those you fed, for whom you toiled! 
Aloha! Hail you, and farewell. 
Far echo of some lost sea-shell! 
Some song that lost its way at sea, 
Some sea-lost notes of nature, lost. 
That crying, came to me. 



Dusk maid, adieu! One sea-shell less! 
Sad sea-shell silenced and forgot. 
O Rachel in the wilderness. 
Wail on! Your children they are not. 
And they who took them, they who laid 
Hard hand, shall they not feel afraid? 
Shall they who in the name of God 
Kobbed and enslaved, escape His rod? 
Give me some after-world afar 
From these hard men, for well I know 
Hell must be where they are. 



Lo! suddenly the lone ship burst 
Upon an uncompleted world, 
A world so dazzling white, man durst 
Not face the flashing search-light hurled 
From heaven's snow-built battlements 
And high-heaved camp of cloud-wreathed 

tents. 
And boom! boom! boom! from sea or shore 
Came one long, deep, continuous roar. 
As if God wrought; as if the days. 
The first six pregnant mother morns, 
Had not quite gone their way. 



What word is fitting but the Word 
Here in this vast world-fashioning? 
What tongue here name the nameless 

Lord? 
What hand lay hand on anything? 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



297 



Come, let us coin new words of might 
And massiveness to name this light, 
This largeness, largeness everywhere! 
White rivers hanging in the air, 
Ice-tied through all eternity! 
Nay, peace! It were profane to say: 
We dare but hear and see. 



Be silent! Hear the strokes resound! 
'T is God's hand rounding down the earth 
Take off thy shoes, 't is holy ground, — 
Behold! a continent has birth! 
The skies bow down, Madonna's blue 
Enfolds the sea in sapphire. You 
May lift, a little spell, your eyes 
And feast them on the ice-propped skies. 
And feast but for a little space: 
Then let thy face fall grateful down 
And let thy soul say grace. 



At anchor so, and all night through, 
The two before God's temple kept. 
He spake: " I know yon peak; I knew 
A deep ice-cavern there. I slept 
With hairy men, or monsters slew. 
Or led down misty seas my crew 
Of cruel savages and slaves. 
And slew who dared the distant waves, 
And once a strange, strong ship — and she, 
I bore her to yon cave of ice, — 
And Love companioned me. 



" Two scenes of all scenes from the first 
Have come to me on this great sea: 
The one when light from heaven burst. 
The oue when sweet Love came to me. 
And of the two, or best or worst, 
I ever hold this second first, 
Bear with me. Yonder citadel 
Of ice tells all my tongue can tell: 



My thirst for love, my pain, my pride, 
My soul's warm youth the while she lived. 
Its old age when she died. 



" I know not if she loved or no. 
I only asked to serve and love; 
To love and serve, and ever so 
My love grew as grows light above, — 
Grew from gray dawn to gold midday, 
And swept the wide world in its sway. 
The stars came down, so close they came, 
I called them, named them with her name. 
The kind moon came, — came once so near, 
That in the hollow of her arm 
I leaned my lifted spear. 



"And yet, somehow, for all the stars. 
And all the silver of the moon, 
She looked from out her icy bars 
As longing for some sultry noon; 
As longing for some warmer kind, 
Some far south sunland left behind. 
Then I went down to sea. I sailed 
Thro' seas where monstrous beasts pre- 
vailed. 
Such slimy, shapeless, hungered things! 
Red griffins, wide-winged, bat-like wings. 
Black griffins, black or fire-fed. 
That ate my fever-stricken men 
Ere yet they were quite dead. 



"I could not find her love for her, 
Or laud, or fit thing for her touch. 
And I came back, sad worshiper, 
And watched and longed and loved so 

much! 
I watched huge monsters climb and pass 
Reflected in great walls, like glass; 
Dark, draggled, hairy, fearful forms 
Upblown by ever-battling storms, 
And streaming still with slime and spray; 
So huge from oi;t their sultry seas, 
Like storm-torn islands they. 



298 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



" Then even these she ceased to note, 
She ceased at last to look on me, 
But, baring to the sun her throat, 
She looked and looked incessantly 
Away against the south, away 
Against the sun the livelong day. 
At last I saw her watch the swan 
Surge tow'rd the north, surge on and on. 
I saw her smile, her first, faint smile; 
Then burst a new-born thought, and I, 
I nursed that all the while. 



"I somehow dreamed, or guessed, or 
knew, 
That somewhere in the dear earth's heart 
Was warmth and tenderness and true 
Delight, and all love's nobler part. 
I tried to think, aye, thought and thought; 
In all the strange fruits that I brought 
For her delight I could but find 
The sweetness deep within the rind. 
All beasts, all birds, some better part 
Of central being deepest housed; 
And earth must have a heart. 



"I watched the wide-winged birds that 
blew 
Continually against the bleak 
And ice-built north, and surely knew 
The long, lorn croak, the reaching beak. 
Led not to ruin evermore; 
For they came back, came swooping o'er 
Each spring, with clouds of younger ones, 
So dense, they dimmed the summer suns. 
And thus I knew somehow, somewhere. 
Beyond earth's ice-biiilt, star-tipt peaks 
They found a softer air. 

"And too, I heard strange stories, held 
In mem'ries of my hairy men. 
Vague, dim traditions, dim with eld, 
Of other lands and ages when 
Nor ices were, nor anything; 



But ever one warm, restful spring 
Of radiant sunlight: stories told 
By dauntless men of giant mold, 
Who kept their cavern's icy mouth 
Ice-locked, and hungered where they sat, 
With sad eyes tow'rd the south: 

" Tales of a time ere hate began. 
Of herds of reindeer, wild beasts tamed. 
When man walked forth in love with man, 
Walked naked, and was not ashamed; 
Of how a brother beast he slew. 
Then night, and all sad sorrows knew; 
How tame beasts were no longer tame; 
How God drew His great sword of flame 
And drove man naked to the snow. 
Till, pitying. He made of skins 
A coat, and clothed him so. 

"And, true or not true, still the same, 
I saw continually at night 
That far, bright, flashing sword of flame, 
Misnamed the Borealis light; 
I saw my men, in coats of skin 
As God had clothed them, felt the sin 
And suff'ering of that first death 
Each day in every icy breath. 
Then why should I still disbelieve 
These tales of fairer lands than mine, 
And let my lady grieve? 



"Yea, I would find that land for her! 
Then dogs, and sleds, and swift reindeer; 
Huge, hairy men, all mailed in fur. 
Who knew not yet the name of fear, 
Nor knew fatigue, nor aughf that ever 
To this day has balked endeavor. 
And we swept forth, while wide, swift 

wings 
Still sought the Pole in endless strings. 
I left her sitting looking south, 
Still leaning, looking to the sun, — 
My kisses on her mouth! 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



299 



X. 

" Far toward the north, so tall, so far, 
Oue tallest ice shaft starward stood — 
Stood as it were itself a star, 
Scarce fallen from its sisterhood. 
Tip-top the glowing apex there 
Upreared a huge white polar bear; 
He pushed his swart nose up and out, 
Then walked the North Star round about, 
Below the Great Bear of the main, 
The upper main, and as if chained, 
Chained with a star-linked chain. 



"And we pushed on, up, on, and on. 
Until, as in the world of dreams. 
We found the very doors of dawn 
With warm sun bursting through the 

seams. 
We brake them through, then down, far 

down, 
Until, as in some park-set town, 
We found lost Eden. Very rare 
The fruit, and all the perfumed air 
So sweet, we sat us down to feed 
And rest, without a thought or care, 
Or ever other need. 



"For all earth's pretty birds were here; 
And women fair, and very fair; 
Sweet song was in the atmosphere, 
Nor efifort was, uor noise, nor care. 
As cocoons from their silken house 
Wing forth and in the sun carouse. 
My men let fall their housings and 
Passed on and on, far down the land 
Of purple grapes and poppy bloom. 
Such warm, sweet land, such peaceful 

land! 
Sweet peace and sweet perfume! 



"And I pushed down ere I returned 
To climb the cold world's walls of snow. 
And saw where earth's heart beat and 

burned. 
An hundred sultry leagues below; 
Saw deep seas set with deep-sea isles 
Of waving verdure; miles on miles 
Of rising sea-birds with their broods, 
In all their noisy, happy moods! 
Aye, then I knew earth has a heart, 
That Nature wastes nor space or place, 
But husbands every part. 



" My reindeer fretted: I turned back 
For her, the heart of me, my soul! 
Ah, then, how swift, how white my track! 
All Paradise beneath the Pole 
Were but a mockery till she 
Should share its dreamful sweets with 

me. . . . 
I know not well what next befell, 
Save that white heaven grew black hell. 
She sat with sad face to the south, 
Still sat, sat still; but she was dead — 
My kisses on her mouth. 



"What else to do but droop and die? 
But dying, how my poor soul yearned 
To fly as swift south birds may fly — 
To pass that way her eyes had turned, 
The dear days she had sat with me, 
And search and search eternity! 
And, do you know, I surely know 
That God has given us to go 
The way we will in life or death — 
To go, to grow, or good or ill, 
As one may draw a breath? " 



300 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



SONG FOUKTH. 

" And God saw everything that He had made, 
and, behold, it was very good." 

Says Plato, '' Once in Greece the gods 
Plucked grapes, pressed wine, and, reveled deep 
And droicsed below their poppy-pods, 
And lay full length the hills asleep. 
Then, ivaking, one said, ' Overmuch 
We toil : come, let us rise and touch 
Red clay, and shape it into man, 
That he may build as we shall j)lan /' 
And so they shaped mail, all complete, 
Self-procreative, satisfied ; 
Two heads, four hands, four feet. 

"And then the gods slept, heedless, long; 
But ivaking suddenly one day. 
They heard their valley ring with song 
And saw man reveling as they. 
Enraged, they dreio their swords and said, 
' Bow down ! bend doivn P — but man replied 
Defiant, fearless, everywhere 
His four fists shaking in the air. 
The gods descending cleft in twain 
Each man ; then wiped their swords on grapes; 
And let confusion reign. 

"And such confusion ! each half ran, 
Ran here, ran there; or iveep or laugh 
Or tvhat he would, each helpless man 
Ran hunting for his other half. 
And from that day, thenceforth the grapes 
Bore blood and flame, and restless shapes 
Of hewn-doivn, helpless halves of men, 
Ran searching ever; crazed, as when 
First hewn in twain, they grasped, let go, 
Then grasped again; but rarely found 
That lost half once loved so." 



i 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



301 



Now, right or wrong, or false or true, 
'Tis Plato's tale of hitter sweet; 
But I know xoell and well know you 
The quest keeps on at fever heat. 
Let Love, then, ivisely sit and wait ! 
The world is round; sit by the gate, 
Like blind Belisarius : being blind. 
Love should not search; Love shall not find 
By searching. Brass is so like gold. 
How shall this blind Love know neiv brass 
From pure soft gold of old? 



PART FOUETH. 



Nay, turn not to the past for light; 
Nay, teach not Pagan tale forsooth! 
Behind lie heathen gods and night, 
Before lift high, white light and truth. 
Sweet Orpheus looked back, and lo, 
Hell met his eyes and endless woe! 
Lot's wife looked back, and for this fell 
To something even worse than hell. 
Let us have faith, sail, seek and find 
The new world and the new world's ways: 
Blind Homer led the blind I 



Come, let us kindle Faith in light! 
Ton eagle climbing to the sun 
Keeps not the straightest course in sight. 
But room and reach of wing and run 
Of rounding circle all are his. 
Till he at last bathes in the light 
Of worlds that look far down on this 
Arena's battle for the right. 
The stoutest sail that braves the breeze. 
The bravest battle ship that rides, 
Rides rounding up the seas. 

Come, let us kindle faith in man! 
What though yon eagle, where he swings, 
May moult a feather in God's plan 



Of broader, stronger, better wings! 
Why, let the moulted feathers lie 
As thick as leaves upon the lawn: 
These be but proof we cleave the sky 
And still round on and on and on. 
Fear not for moulting feathers; nay. 
But rather fear when all seems fair, 
And care is far away. 

Come, let us kindle faith in God! 
He made, He kept. He still can keep. 
The storm obeys His burning rod, 
The storm brought Christ to walk the 

deep. 
Trust God to round His own at will; 
Trust God to keep His own for aye — 
Or strife or strike, or well or ill; 
An eagle climbing up the sky — 
A meteor down from heaven hurled — 
Trust God to round, reform, or rock 
His new-born baby world. 



How full the great, full-hearted seas 
That lave high, white Alaska's feet! 
How densely green ihe dense green trees! 
How sweet the smell of wood! how sweet! 
What sense of high, white newness where 
This new world breathes the new, blue air 
That never breath of man or breath 
Of mortal thing considereth! 



302 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



And O, that Borealis light! 

The angel with his flaming sword 

And never sense of night! 



IV. 

Are these the walls of Paradise — 
Ton peaks the gates man may not pass? 
Lo, everlasting silence lies 
Along their gleaming ways of glass! 
Jiist silence and that sword of flame; 
Just silence and Jehovah's name, 
Where all is new, unmamed, and white! 
Come, let us read where angels write — 
"In the beginning God" — aye, these 
The waters where God's Spirit moved; 
These, these, the very seas! 

Just one deep, wave-washed chariot 
wheel : 
Such sunset as that far first day! 
An unsheathed sword of flame and steel; 
Then battle flashes; then dismay, 
And mad confiisiou of all hues 
That earth and heaven could infuse, 
Till all hues softly fused and blent 
In orange worlds of wonderment: 
Then dying day, in kingly ire, 
Struck back with one last blow, and 

smote 
The world with molten fire. 



So fell Alaska, proudly, dead 
In battle harness where he fought. 
But falling, still high o'er his head 
Far flashed his sword in crimson wrought, 
Till came his kingly foeman. Dusk, 
In garments moist with smell of musk. 
The bent moon moved down heaven's 

steeps 
Low-bowed, as when a woman weeps; 
Bowed low, half-veiled in widowhood; 
Then stars tiptoed the peaks in gold 
And burned brown sandal-wood. 



Fit death of Day; fit burial rite 
Of white Alaska! Let us lay 
This leaflet 'mid the musky night 
Upon his tomb. Come, come away; 
For Phaon talks and Sappho turns 
To where the light of heaven burns 
To love light, and she leans to hear 
With something more than mortal ear. 
The while the ship has pushed her prow 
So close against the fir-set shore 
You breathe the spicy bough. 



Some red men by the low, white beach; 
Camp fires, belts of dense, black fir: 
She leans as if she still would reach 
To him the very soul of her. 
The red flames cast a silhouette 
Against the snow, above the jet 
Black, narrow night of fragrant fir, 
Behold, what ardent worshiper! 
Lim'd out against a glacier peak, 
With strong arms crossed upon his breast; 
The while she feels him speak: 



"How glad was I to walk with Death 
Far down his dim, still, trackless lands. 
Where wind nor wave nor any breath 
Broke ripples o'er the somber sands. 
I walked with Death as eagerly 
As ever I had sailed this sea. 
Then on and on I searched, I sought, 
Yet all my seeking came to naught. 
I sailed by pleasant, peopled isles 
Of song and summer time; I sailed 
Ten thousand weary miles! 



"I heard a song! She had been sad, 
So sad and ever drooping she; 
How could she, then, in song be glad 
The M'hile I searched ? It could not be. 
And yet that voice! so like it seemed, 
I questioned if I heard or dreamed. 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



303 



She smiled on me. This made me scorn 
My very self ; for I was boru 
To loyalty. I would be true 
Unto my love, my soul, my self, 
Whatever death might do. 



' ' I fled her face, her proud, fair face, 
Her songs that won a world to her. 
Had she sat songless in her place, 
Sat with no single worshiper. 
Sat with bowed head, sad-voiced, alone, 
I might have known! I might have known! 
But how could I, the savage, know 
This sun, contrasting with that snow. 
Would waken her great soul to song 
That still thrills all the ages through? 
I blindly did such wrong! 



"Again I fled. I ferried gods; 
Yet, pining still, I came to pine 
Where drowsy Lesbos Bacchus nods 
And drowned my soul in Cyprian wine. 
Drowned! drowned my poor, sad soul so 

deep, 
I sank to where damned serpents creep! 
Then slowly upward; round by round 
I toiled, regained this vantage-ground. 
And now, at last, I claim mine own, 
As some long-banished king comes back 
To battle for his throne." 



I do not say that thus he spake 
By word of mouth, by human speech; 
The sun in one swift flash will take 
A photograph of space and reach 
The realm of stars. A soul like his 
Is like unto the sun in this: 
Her soul the plate placed to receive 
The swift impressions, to believe, 
To doubt no more than you might doubt 
The wondrous midnight world of stars 
That dawn has blotted out. 



And Phaon loved her; he who knew 
The North Pole and the South, who named 
The stars for her, strode forth and slew 
Black, hairy monsters no man tamed; 
And all before fair Greece was born, 
Or Lesbos yet knew night or morn. 
No marvel that she knew bim when 
He came, the chiefest of all men. 
No marvel that she loved and died. 
And left such marbled bits of song — 
Of broken Phidian pride. 



Oh, but for that one further sense 
For man that man shall yet possess! 
That sense that puts aside pretense 
And sees the truth, that scorns to guess 
Or grope, or play at blindman's bufi". 
But knows rough diamonds in the rough! 
Oh, well for man when man shall see, 
As see he must man's destiny! 
Oh, well when man shall know his mate, 
One-winged and desolate, lives on 
And bravely dares to wait! 



Full morning found them, and the laud 
Received them, and the chapel gray; 
Some Indian huts on either hand, 
A smell of pine, a flash of spray, — 
White, frozen rivers of the sky 
Far up the glacial steeps hard by. 
Far ice-peaks flashed with sudden light. 
As if they would illume the rite. 
As if they knew his story well. 
As if they knew that form, that face. 
And all that Time could tell. 



They passed dusk chieftains two by two, 
With totem gods and stroud and shell 



304 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



They slowly passed, and passing through, 
He bought of all — he knew them well. 
And one, a bent old man and blind, 
He put his hands about, and kind 
And strange words whispered in his ear, 
So soft, his dull soul could but hear. 
And hear he surely did, for he, 
With full hands, lifted up his face 
And smiled right pleasantly. 



How near, how far, how fierce, how 
tame! 
The j)olar bear, the olive branch; 
The dj'ing exile, Christ's sweet name — 
Vast silence! then the avalanche! 
How much this little church to them — 
Alaska and Jeriisalem! 
The pair passed in, the silent pair 
Fell down before the altar there, 
The Greek before the gray Greek cross, 
And Phaon at her side at last, 
For all her weary loss. 



The bearded priest came, and he laid 
His two hands forth and slowly spake 
Strange, solemn words, and slowly prayed, 
And blessed them there, for Jesus' sake. 
Then slowly they arose and passed. 
Still silent, voiceless to the last. 
They passed : her eyes were to his eyes, 
But his were lifted to the skies, 
As looking, looking, that lorn night. 
Before the birth of God's first-born 
As praying still for Light. 



So Phaon knew and Sappho knew 
Nor night nor sadness any more. . . . 
How new the old world, ever new. 
When white Love walks the shining shore! 
They found their long-lost Eden, found 
Her old, sweet songs; si;ch dulcet sound 
Of harmonies as soothe the ear 



When Love and only Love can hear. 
They found lost Eden; lilies lay 
Along their path, whichever land 
They journeyed from that day. 



They never died. Great loves live on. 
You need not die and dare the skies 
In forms that poar creeds hinge iipon 
To pass the gates of Paradise. 
I know not if that sword of flame 
Still lights the North, and leads the same 
As when he passed the gates of old. 
I know not if they braved the bold. 
Defiant walls that fronted them 
Where awful Saint Elias broods, 
Wrai^ped in God's garment-hem. 

I only know they foiind the lost, 
The long-lost Eden, found all fair 
Where naught had been but hail and frost; 
As Love finds Eden anywhere. 
And wouldst thou, too, live on and on? 
Then walk with Nature till the dawn. 
Aye, make thy soul worth saving — save 
Thy soul from darkness and the grave. 
JLove God not overmuch, but love 
God's world which He called very good; 
Then lo. Love's white sea-dove! 



I know not where lies Eden-land; 
I only know 't is like unto 
God's kingdom, ever right at hand — 
Ever right here in reach of you. 
Put forth thy hand, or great or small, 
In storm or sun, by sea or wood, 
And say, as God hath said of all, 
Behold, it all is very good. 
I know not where lies Eden-land; 
I only say receive the dove: 
I say put forth thy hand. 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 305 



Grateful for my first good health, like this last, and it is the only thing of mine? except " The City Beautiful " 
that quite pleases me. For here is not only the largeness and glory of the great sea which I have been trying to 
lay hand on these twenty-five years, but here is also the lesson of immortality — this — these, however vagtiely 
and inadequately uttered, have a high purjiose and I hope are in the right line of inquiry. For oh, how the 
great soulful world is crying out at heart for something other than creeds and creeds and creeds and locks ou the 
doors of God's House ! And yet, how well I know I have only set up a little light here on the bank of these un- 
written seas, a little house that is on a hill of sand. My hope is in, and my heart is with, the wiser and better 
prophets to come after. 

How painfully sensitive I always was in both body and mind till of late years ! I seem to have been bom 
with the malaria, aggravated by life in Naples, Washington City and Mexico City, in each of which places I 
bought land and tried to settle down. But at last I dug health and strength and new life to complete and 
make my old work new right out of the earth here on my mountain side iu tlie hot sun— ten years in doing it, 
and now am stronger and really younger than since I first came here. Let this lesson of hard contact with 
our common mother not be thrown away. In the sweat of thy face — not in the sweat of another's face — shalt 
thou eat bread. It was God's first command at the expulsion, and really includes all others. 

One final word to the coming poets of the Sierras and the great Sea and the Universal Heart. For I would 
have them, not like the very many cedars but like the very few sequoias. 1 would have them not fear the ele- 
ments, or seek station or oflSce from any one; to owe no man; only God. Yes, I know — who should better 
know ?— how long and lonely and terribly dark the night is when not well nourished and encouraged by earnest 
friends; but I have seen some, better, abler than I, halt, falter, fall, from very excess of kindly praise and patronage. 
My coming poets, there are offices, favors, high honors within the gift of good men, and good men are many; 
but the gift of song is from God only. Choose, and adhere to the end; for we cannot serve two masters. A 
good citizen you may be, have love, peace, plenty to the end, but you shall not even so much as ascend the 
mountain that looks down upon the Promised Laud, however much you may be made to believe you have at- 
tained it if you follow mammon. On the other hand, plain, simple, apart, alone, God only at your side, you 
must toil by day and meditate by night, remembering always that the only true dignity is true humility; remem- 
bering always that the only true humility is true dignity. Poverty, pain, persecution, ingratitude, scorn, and may 
be obscurity at the end. But always and through all, and over and above all, Faith and Hope and Charity The 
greatest and the humblest that has been, your one exeraplor. And so, following Him, shall you never answer 
back except and only by some white banner set on your own splendid and inaccessible summits: the fla" of for- 
giveness and good will. 

If then, thus informed by one whose feet are worn, the starry steeps of song be still your aspiration don 
your Capuchin garb and with staff and sandal shoon go forth alono to find your lofty acre, to plant and water 
your tree, to take your eternal lessons from Him, through the toil of bee and the song of bird. Nor shall you iu 
your lofty seclusion and security from the friction and roar of trade for one day escape or seek to escape your 
duties to man. The poets are God's sentries set on the high watch-towers of the world. You uuist see with the 
true foresight of the seer of old the coming invasions, the internal evils, the follies of your age, and not only give 
warning but bravely lead to triumph or perish, as the prophets of old, if need be. 

For example, by what right shall a man continue to dovote his life to getting and getting and gettin" from 
those about him, and, fostered by the State in his continual getting, cut the State off without even the traditional 
shilling when he has done with his gatherings? All great men have to leave all their gettings to the State when 
they go. Why shall not a rich man ? If all the Rothschilds should die to-morrow and leave all their riches to 
England they would not all together leave her as much as Shakespeare left. And you, too, shall break the horns 
of strange gods, coming from over this ocean or that. It is only a snake that has two heads or a double tongue. 
Take another example, one of the monstrous evils of this hour: none the less monstrous, only the harder to 
destroy because encouraged and under the protection of every church in the land. To day we are wastin" 
enough to buy a house and provide a pension for every widow. Poor old women are made slaves, down on their 
knees scrubbing to pay monstrous ghouls for tawdry funerals, while the wishes of Dickens, Hugo and the like 
great men are ignored. And largely, too, because our own, sentimental weaklings choose to'please and be 
made popular by catering to the dead in the grave instead of the living God over all; doleful night birds singing of 
God's Acre, as it all acres were not God's. When the great poet comes he will lead his people to put III this 
in the hands of the State, so that we may all be resolved, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, simply and alike, rich 
and poor, having choice only as to the kind, not the price of funerals. 

Perhaps the greatest source of sorrow, sin, iu thi.s, our commercial age, is the periodical "hard times" 
There should be nothing of that sort. True, this age of gold and of getting will pass as the age of stone and man 



3o6 



SAPPHO AND PHAON. 



eating passed, but our work is with our own age. Then, can the seer, the prophet, priest, poet sing, and so teach 
a way to avert this tidal wave of calamity that every few years submerges the entire christian world? Let us looli 
about us. In the first place why does China in all her thousands of prosperous years, notwithstanding her millions 
of poor, never have " hard times? " Simply because her people pay their debts. That is the secret of It. At the 
end of each year each mau pays his debts; then there is a feast, and not till then. The Jews were not foolish in 
their generation; they are not foolish now you will agree. And why had they never such periods of depression? 
For the same reason; they paid their debts, paid their debts every seven years instead of every single year. And 
when we shall have a law like that, and live by it, the very name " hard times " in this land and age of boundless 
abundance can be turned over to the historian forever. The Jews let business go at loose ends nearly seven years, 
quite as long, perhaps, as it is best to let weak human nature run witliout adjustment. Then they compelled an 
absolute settlement; then they, too had the great feast, and all began business anew. Even the Romans, and more 
than once— but only when compelled— burned their books of mortgage, debt, and taxes. 

As for our own laws of limitations, said to be fashioned after those of the Bible, they are simply a delusion 
and a blank falsehood. The money lender sits down with you, counts up the interest, compounds it, summons you 
to a new mortgage, and you get up and go forth tied Just one knot tighter than before. And this is our " Statute 
of Limitations ! " 

What, this is not the poet's work ! Sir, truth is the poet's sword, and his battle is for mankind. I like the 
story of that Orpheus piping on a hillside till people sat at his feet to bear him play; and so built a city there. 
Beautiful, divinely beautiful, the poet's story of the old shepherd king who had his strength restored each time the 
giant threw him down to earth, The people came crowding to the cities then as now. Ah! never was a great poet 
needed as now. These themes, or such themes are crying out continuously. The deaf do not hear; the blind can- 
not see. The seer only can see. "Let me sing the songs and I care not who make the laws." 

Clearly then, you are not to go apart in consecration for your own ease, least of all for your own glory. The 
only glory that can long attend you or at all survive you is the glory of doing good; defending the weak, guiding 
the strong, making the blind to see; finding your reward entirely in the fact that you loyally love the true, the 
good and beautiful, this trinity in one. 

The best thing any town, county, state or nation can do for itself, seen in the coldest and most commercial 
sense, is to encourage home, heart literature; the worst thing the reverse. There should be a system of pensions 
from all, or at least of scholarships, from centers of learning. For literature, the flower of civilization and 
the mother and nurse of men, should not be forever left to chance in a great age and land like this. Meantime, 
let some gentleman of fortune who reads and is thrilled by "The New Liberty Bell," or like thing, quietly set 
aside a bit of his income for its author. Truly it will be "twice blessed." This was nothing new in the Old 
World, from Augustus down, and was never so fit as in this New World, where new work is to be done. For 
new work is so hard to do, and so hardly received when done. 




ADIOS. 



307 



ADIOS. 

And here, sweet friend, I go my way 
Alone, as I have lived, alone 
A little loay, a brief half day, 
And then, the restful, white milestone. 
I know not surely where or when. 
But surely know we meet agai^i. 
As surely know ive love anew 
In grander life the good and true; 
Shall breathe together there as here 
Some clearer, sweeter atmosphere. 
Shall walk high, wider loays above 
Our jictty selves, shall lean to lead 
Man lip and up in thought and deed.... 
Dear soul, sweet friend, I love you, love 
The love that led you i^atient through 
This wilderness of tvords in quest 
Of strange toild flowers from my West; 
But here, dear heart. Adieu. 



Ton great chained sea-ship chafes to be 

Ouce more unleashed without the Gate 

Ou proud Balboa's boundless sea, 

And I chafe with her, for I hate 

The rust of rest, the dull repose, 

The fawning breath of changeful foes, 

Whose blame through all my bitter days 

I have endured; spare me their praise! 

I go, full hearted, grateful, gliid 

Of strength from dear good mother earth; 

And yet am I full sad. 

II. 

Could I but teach man to believe— 
Could I but make small men to grow. 
To break frail spider-webs that weave 
About their thews and bind them low; 
Could I but sing one song and slay 



Grim Doubt; I then could go my way 
In tranquil silence, glad, serene, 
And satisfied, from off the scene. 
But ah, this disbelief, this doubt, 
This doubt of God, this doiibt of good,- 
The damned spot will not out! 



Grew once a rose within vay room 
Of perfect hue, of perfect health; 
Of such perfection and perfume, 
It filled my poor house with its wealth. 
Then came the pessimist who knew 
Not good or grace, but overthrew 
My rose, and in the broken pot 
Nosed fast for slugs within the rot. 
He found, found with exulting pride, 
Deep in the loam, a worm, a slug; 
The while my rose-tree died. 



3o8 



ADIOS. 



Yea, ye did hurt me. Joy in this. 
Receive great joy at last to know, 
Siace paia is all your world of bliss, 
That ye did, hounding, hurt me so! 
But mute as bayed stag on his steeps. 
Who keeps his haunts, and, bleeding, 

keeps 
His breast turned, watching where they 

come. 
Kept I, defiant, and as dumb. 
But comfort ye; your work was done 
With devils' cunning, like the mole 
That lets the life-sap run. 

And my revenge? My vengeance is 
That I have made one rugged spot 
The fairer; that I fashioned this 
While euvy^ hate, and falsehood shot 
Rank poison; that I leave to those 
Who shot, for arrows, each a rose; 
Aye, labyrinths of rose and wold. 
Acacias garmented in gold. 
Bright fountains, where birds come to 

drink; 
Such clouds of cunning, pretty birds, 
And tame as you cau think. 



Come here when I am far away, 
Fond lovers of this lovely land. 
And si-t quite still and do not say. 
Turn right or left, or lift a hand, 
But sit beneath my kindly trees 
And gaze far out yon sea of seas: — 
These trees, these very stones, could tell 
How long I loved them, and how well — 
And maybe I shall come and sit 
Beside you; sit so silently 
You will not reck of it. 



The old desire of far, new lands, 
The thirst to learn, to still front storms, 
To bend my knees, to lift my hands 
To God in all His thousand forms — 
These lure and lead as pleasantly 
As old songs sung anew at sea. 
But, storied lands or stormy deeps, 
I will my ashes to my steeps — 
I will my steeps, green cross, red rose, 
To those who love the beautiful — 
Come, learn to be of those. 



The sun has draped his couch in red; 
Night takes the warm world in his arms 
And turns to their espousal bed 
To breathe the perfume of her charms: 
The great sea calls, and I descend 
As to the call of some strong friend. 
I go, not hating any man, 
But loving Earth as only can 
A lover suckled at her breast 
Of beauty from his babyhood, 
And roam to truly rest. 



God is not far; man is not far 

From Heaven's porch, where paeans rolL 

Man yet shall speak from star to star 

In silent language of the soul; 

You star-strewn skies be but a town, 

With angels passing up and down. 

" I leave my peace with you." Lo! these 

His seven wounds, the Pleiades 

Pierce Heaven's porch. But, resting there. 

The new moon rocks the Child Christ iu 

Her silver rocking-chair. 



These poems, "Songs of the Soul," although loi>s m the weaver's loom, and given to the world now and 
then in shreds through the magaziues, were, the most of them, not gathered into book form until 1896, when thej 
were published by ray present San Francisco publishers 



ADIOS. 309 

The book was dedicated with the foUowiug lines "To Mother:" 

And oh, the voices I have heard! 
Such visions where the moruiug grows— 
A brother's soul in some sweet bird, 
A sister's spirit in a rose. 

And oh, the beauty I have found! 
Such beauty, beauty everywhere; 
The beauty creeping on the ground. 
The beauty singing through the air. 

The love in all, the good, the worth. 
The God in all, or dusk or dawn; 
Good will to man and peace on earth; 
The morning stars sing on and on. 



Note.— It may be a bold thing to sing by one's own great sea-bank instead of abroad, as before; but I have 
faith in my owu people, and believe the time has come to keep one's work at home. I hope to follow this soon with 
"Songs of the Sierras" and "Songs of the Suulauds," revised and complete. 

The Loudon and Boston plates of these books having been worn out, publication was suspended till such 
time as the revised works, with some additions, might be ready for the press. Meantime, while I was in Mexico, 
ij-responsible parties in Chicago issued mutilated and unauthorized editions. It is due to all concerned to state 
that it is not only unlawful to handle all these Chicago poems, as well as the editions published in Canada by some 
of the same parties, but they are an imposition on the reader, as many lines are left out, and also many lines 
inserted that are new to the author. 

Joaquin Miller. 
The nights, Oakland, Cal., ISOG. 



And, here at the end be not impatient that you have found much of self in these foot-notes from title leaf to 
colophon, nor count it at aU selfish. I had my lessons to teach to those whose desire to learn is above cheap cuji- 
osity, and with such souls there can be no sacrifice of true dignity, for here familiarity is not vulgarity. The best 
guide book to me, through a strange land, is the story of another's journey there. Let me say to the pilgrims of 
song, in conclusion, be not afraid. Sing from the heart, to the heart. Sing as the birds .sing. Let the alleged 
lion roar. Let the dog bark. These beasts are of the earth. The birds are of the air. The dog must bay the 
moon, and the brighter the moon the louder the dog. 

And now, maybe, you who have kindly gone through these leaves, listened to song of mine and fragmentary 
story, been with me face to face, soul to soul in savage scenes or tame, by land and by sea — maybe you will care to 
sit a minute with me here at the end under mine own vine and lig-tree. First then the story of my little mountain 
home that looks down upon many cities and away out through the Golden Gate. I owe the finding of it, or rather 
the love and large appreciation of it to Fremont. He had pitched tent here, taken his observations here, named 
the Golden Gate from this very spot when it was glorious with all its primal wood and grasses and waterfall. It 
was, even in his old age when I last saw him, mch. a memory that his voice trembled with emotion as he relived his 
early life here. But when misfortune— and how good is misfortune— led my feet from Mexico city iu search of 
health to this spot it was devastations self. Nut the vestige of tree, flower or waterfall; only a few holes of mud, 
whero poor, starving cattle gathered and hogs wallowed or baked in the burning sun. The destruction of wood and 
grass had dried up the water springs. The steeps were laid bare to storms and landslides and washouts, and left 
but a skeleton— lone and stark— of the once glorious Hights. But now, ten, a dozen years of toil! I would that 
Fremont could see it now 1 It had been my dream to have him here when the place was once more restored; but 
he passed as my work was not yet half done. And now I can only thank him for having guided inc here. 

And who is here with me? AVliy mother, looking younger than I, and then students, lovers of the good and 
beautiful. And then a brother comes and goes, a native of Oregon, not one of those you saw when baby sister \iaa 



3IO ADIOS. 

born. The only one living is in Oregon, married to the daughter of a little orphan adopted by that greatest man 
that ever came west, Marcus P. Whitman. When he was tomahawked and all his house was being butchered this 
little girl got under the bed and finding a plank loose in the floor crept down; and as the mission was not burned 
tin later, she got away. And now nine noble grandchildren of hers gather at my brother's hearthstone. And my 
old partner of the saddle in Idaho is here too. You remember we got all the gold-dust we wanted? I took mine to 
the mint, then, after my travels in Mexico and South America, took it home and mother let it down in the well 
with a stout rope. When anybody in the country, or passing California friends, wanted gold, papa and mother 
would pull up the lasso. After a few months they got tired of that and mother talked of burying it, but she finally 
stacked the gold up in the dining room. It melted fast now, for we were making investments and doing about what 
any folk will do who only have plenty of gold once in a lifetime. One morning mother looked up from the break- 
fast table and then gave a startled cry. The stacks of gold were gone! No one ever knew when it was taken or by 
whom. No one was accused or suspected. Nothing was ever heard of it nor was there any great bother about it. 
1 never suspected it was stolen, but I always believed and still believe that mother must have gotten up in her sleep 
some night and buried it, as she had been talking of. As for my lone and honest old partner who has come to me 
with his face leaning to the earth, as if ready and willing to rest, he made even as little use of his hoard of gold as 
I did, and laments its loss even less than I. 

Mrs. Fremont, writing me from Los Angeles, May, 1896, in connection with the spot from which General 
Fremont took his observations and gave the gate its name, says, quoting first from Fremont's reports to Congress, 
and then adding a paragraph of her own: 

"The bay of San Francisco is separated from the sea by low mountains. Looking from the peaks of the 
Sierra Nevada the coast mountains present an apparently continuous line, with only a single gap, resembling a 
mountain pass. This is the entrance to the great bay and is the only water communication from the coast to the 
interior country. Approaching from the sea the coast presents a bold outline. On the south the bordering moun- 
tains come down in a narrow ridge of broken hills, terminating iu a precipitous point, against which the sea breaks 
heavily. On the northern side the mountain presents a bold promontory, rising iu a few miles to a height of two 
or three thousand feet. Between these points is the strait— about one mile broad in the narrowest part and five 
miles long from the sea to the bay. 

" Passing through this gate (called Chrysopolse on the map on the same principle that the harbor of Byzan- 
tium (Constantinople afterward) was called Chryoceras (Golden Horn). The form of the harbor and its advan- 
tages for commerce, and that before it became an entrepot of Eastern commerce, suggested the name to the Greek 
founders of Byzantium. The form of the entrance into the bay of San Francisco, and its advantages for commerce, 
Asiatic inclusive, suggests the name which is given to this entrance. The bay opens to the right and left, extend- 
ing in each direction about thirty-five miles, having a total length of more than seventy and a coast of about 275 
miles. Within the view presented is of a mountainous country, the bay resembling an interior lake of deep water 
lying between parallel ranges of mountains. » * » Directly fronting the entrance, mountains, a few miles from 
the shore, rise about 2,000 feet above the water, crowned by a forest of the lofty cypress, which is visible from the 
sea, and makes a conspicuous landmark for vessels entering the bay. Behind, the rugged peak of Mount Diablo, 
nearly 4,000 feet high (3770), overlooks the sm-rounding country of the bay and San Joaquin. 

" [From a geographical memoir and map of explorations by J. C. Fremont, prepared as ordered by the United 
States Senate in lSi7, and printed in Washington, D. C, iu June, 1848. On this map is given, for the first time, 
the name of Golden Gate, and by J. C. Fremont.] J. B. Fremont." 

The Fremont road, that bends above Oakland from Berkeley to Mills Seminary, after being closed for half a 
century, is once more open, and it passes through our door yard; a stream of people, crowds of students, faces of 
many children dispel the foolish story that a hermit houses here. 

You want to see San Francisco? Well, you must come to Oakland to see San Francisco. And do you 
want to see Oakland and San Francisco and the bay of all bays on the globe and the Golden Gate at a glance and 
all together? Then you must go two miles to the northeast and one mile perpendicular. In short, you must come 
to the Hights, to the camp where Fremont tented half a century ago and from which spot he named the now 
famous Golden Gate years before gold was found. And now please let me tell you how to get there. Mrs. Fre- 
mont, as before noted, confirms and locates beyond doubt the spot from which California's first Senator looked 
upon this marvel of nature in all its gorgeous magnificence and gave this opulent and color-crowned name to our 
doorway. 

It is a bit remarkable that the bay of San Francisco was discovered by land. It is none the less noticeable 
that the Golden Gate was named, not by any navigator or voyager by sea, but from the solid land, by a man who 



ADIOS. 311 

bore the dust of 3.000 miles of wilderness and desert on his leathern garments. The first question asked by the 
novice in roadcraft and camp life is, "Why did Fremont and Kit Carson keep along these rugged Contra Costa 
steeps instead of the level valley?" Water. The one and only answer is, water. In all the broad levels from San 
Pablo Bay to the pleasant brooks of old San Jose Mission, there was not a drop of fresh water at certain seasons 
of the year. True, there were vast herds of cattle here when Fremont came, but these cattle had to take to the 
foothills for water in the arid months of August and September. General Beale, afterward our Minister to Austria, 
but "Midshipman Beale" at the time, as Fremont calls him in his early reports of his explorations, speaks of kill- 
ing "Spanish elk " for supplies from his boat on San Pablo Bay, but these cattle watered from the hills. Of course, 
boats plied, at long periods, up and down the Sacramento from New Helvetia (Sacramento) to Yerba Buena (San 
Francisco), but no travel passed up and down the river bank; that way was not only perilous by water, Vjut peri- 
lous from savages and lawless Mexicans. One of the most pathetic chapters in our naval history is the loss of a 
ship's boat and its entire crew in passing between these two points. Fremont had, as an army officer, procured 
from a man-of-war a large sum of money with which to pay his men at Sutter's Fort. The naval commander dis- 
patched his boat with the money in charge of two of his officers and a picked crew to Fremont by way of the Sacra- 
mento River. Neither boat, men nor money was ever heard of any more. The names of the officers and marines 
were carried forward on the pay-roll for ten years, but no tidings of any sort ever came, and at the end of that time 
they were given up as lost. Probably a sudden squall— and the boatload of silver and the brave men are still 
together at the bottom of San Pablo or the Carquinez Straits; for it is not recorded in all our naval or military 
history that any officer ever betrayed such a trust. But such dalliance as this with every dramatic story of olden 
days and there will be no end. 

I first passed over this spot in the fall of 1854, as bellboy and cook along with Mountain Jo, one of Fremont's 
former men, who was driving a band of half-wild horses from southern to northern California. The road was not 
in his line of travel, but there were two things almost indispensable to Mountain Jo and his horses, whisky and 
water. My duties were to ride an old bell mule in the lead of his band of wild horses and wilder Mexicans and 
look out for "wood, water and grass," and there pitch camp. My recollection of the road, after breaking camp at 
the " Embarcadero, " is mainly of the beautiful wooded and watered canon. I think it was then called Temescal. 
Now and then there were peeps through the pines and redwoods as the dusty trail rose and fell up and down the 
billowy but ever ascending foothills. The trail was knee-deep in dust; and wild oats, rusty, dusty and golden 
green, rose on either side to my shoulders as I climbed and climbed. Great long ox teams now and then crossed 
the trail, ploddmg sleepily down toward what is now Oakland. 

I next saw the site of my moontain home nine years later, when I went to look on a great painter at work 
there. Mrs. Fremont writes me : 

" ^Vheu Bierstadt went to California to study its scenery (and the Rocky Mountains en route) we gave him 
letters to Starr King and other friends. It was about April of 1863. In giving him a commission to paint for na 
the Golden Gate, with the setting sun lighting the pathway into it, both of us, Mr. Fremont and myself, gave him 
fully our feeling. I clearly remember Mr. Fremont saying he must see the sunset from the Contra Costa, as he had 
to realize the force and splendid appropriateness of the name in its scenic sense, apart from the other idea of the 
gateway of commerce. Bierstadt made a grand picture. When we had to sell what would bring needed money 
Commodore Garrison bought this for $4,000, just what we had given Bierstadt. 

"My daughter, who was from her seventh year a constant companion of her father on long horseback rides 
and days of working explorations on the Mariposas, as well as many a long ride around San Francisco— as often in 
quieter times on the Hudson— remembers many and many a talk on views, on physical geography, on beautiful 
camps, for she has her father's silent delight in nature and is his true child in loving to read of, study and inform 
herself of geographical travel She says she is sure you are right. * * * 

"The great rock stamps it. He loved a mass of detached rock. * • • When I was written to by a New 
York friend of an intended monument to the general I asked that they would spare him the commonplaces that 
make such sadly mourning-stones usurp our finer ideas. If they must, then put up a great rock, a rough mass of 
granite, such as he had carved the emblem of the cross upon ' according to the custom of early travelers' — for he 
felt the strong, invisible power that grasped the heavens and the earth— and on it put only his name." 

Here at dawn we are above the clouds ! What would the world do without clouds? And at no two hours of 
the day, no two minutes, indeed, are the views along here alike. You see the higher streets of San Francisco 
above the rolling, surging sea mist. The great cross of the Lone Mountain Cemetery lifting in grand and solemn 
loneliness above all things and looking strangely tall and vast. The clouds roll above Oakland, lift, rift a little, 
and church spires are pointing up and through the sea of snow that undulates, lifts, pulses at your feet. The 
whole bay is a mobile floor of silver. Not a suggestion of the sea 1 Tamalpais, with its winding track and trains 



312 ADIOS. 

above the clouds that conceal Sau Pablo Bay, a white lighthouse on the headlands below, Black Point, Sutro 
Heights, Fort Alcatraz, the tips and topmasts of sail, that is all— 

Where phantom ships unchallenged pass 
The gloomy guns of Alcatraz. 

Twelve o'clock and not a cloud— not a cloud above or about the peaceful fair visage of beautiful Alameda 
below you. And yet do not despise the clouds, God's garments' hem. Truly, all that is good or great is veiled, 
garmented in mist, clouds, mystery. The priest has his sacred place, the house of God has its holy of holies. All 
things in nature have their mantled mysteries. The little seeds take life in the dark mold; all life begins in secret, 
silence, majestic mystery, the large solemnity of night. 

At morning, noon or night, especially night, when the heavens and the earth are on fire— for you cannot tell 
where the lights leave off and the stars begin— the scene is the most gorgeously magnificent on all the globe. 

Deep below us lies the valley. 

Steep below us lies the town, 
Where great seaships ride and rally 

And the world walks up and down. 

Oh, the sea of lights far streaming, 

AVhen the thousand Hags are furled 
And the gleaming bay lies dreaming 

As it duplicates the world 1 

Let us conclude with a paragraph descriptive of the all-glorious outlook of my mountain home here from the 
pen of Mr. Harr Wagner, editor of The Western Journal of Education, San Francisco: 

" The finest days here are the stormy or winter days, when there are no forest fires to make a haze and the 
clouds are at work below in all their mobile and ever-changing glory. Early spring is quite as effective. At that 
time the clouds are being driven out from the Oregon Edeus by the flaming swords of approaching summer, and 
they surge down the coast as if terrified and pomr in at the Golden Gate like flying fugitives, the California sun 
spilling all its golden opulence on this surging, inflowing sea; a ship's masts piercing through, a church spire, the 
green hills of San Francisco beyond— but how idle are all words here ! 

"It is noticeable that at each ecjuinox the sun, from this— Fremont's— point of view, falls down exactly into 
the Golden Gate, and it is always at such times incredibly vast, blocking for a few moments the whole gate with its 
disk of gold. 

" I once saw a black cloud— black as midnight and as boundless— hang above this ball of gold as it rolled 
down into the golden chasm of the Golden Gate. But the sun did not heed the cloud. The cloud was only blacker 
from the brightness of the golden globe, and the gate and the walls of the gate, and the bay, and the city, and all 
the cities up and down, and the islands, and the ships, and, indeed, all the world, the heavens and the earth, all 
things, save that awful nightmare of lilack cloud above the golden sun, were for a moment nothing but molten 
gold. Then the sun sank, sank suddenly into the sea, as if it had, indeed, been a mighty ball of gold, and the 
blackness fell down as suddenly in his place, and blackness was, only blackness, as if God Himself had closed the 
gate with a bang, and forever." 




d r*^ 




J-. 



'^/^f*^ 



APPENDIX. 



315 



APPENDIX. 



My attention is called to the fact that I, 
who ever companioned with the eagles of 
my mountain peaks, have turaed to the 
dove with a devotion that is monotonous 
in this book. I am amazed to find this 
the case. I can only say candidly that 
while it may be a fault, which I should 
have avoided had it been detected in time, 
yet this sweet symbol of peace is honestly 
in these pages and must now remain. And 
if ever I have a crest or coat-of-arms it will 
be a dove and olive leaf. 
There are many to-morrows, my Love, my 

Love! 
There is only one to-day. 

•^ -t^ -^ ¥■ ^ a 

It is further observed that my descrip- 
tions of deserts and desolate lands hardly 
invite the old world to share the fortunes 
of the new. I can only answer by point- 
ing to Utah, a desert of wild beasts and 
wild men when I began my work, but 
now the garden of the globe. The follow- 
ing little story will tell how the desert is 
being made to blossom as the rose from 
Canada to Mexico in this western world: 

ARTESIA OF TULAKE. 

An old Scotch shepherd with a tale 
Of crofter strife, heartbroken wife; 
A barefoot girl, sad-eyed and pale; 
A dog, a gun, a buckhorn knife; 
With garments torn, with face unshorn 
And all his better life outworn; 
But then his fond white flock of sheep 
Where still Tulare's waters creep: 

Fair, level water, willow-lined. 
The one loved stream in all that land! 



You should have seen it wind and wind 
Through unfenced seas of loam and sand 
Long years ago, with here and there 
A pack of wolves, a waiting bear, 
When this stout-hearted, lorn old man 
Kept flock as only Scotchmen can! 

And how he loved Tulare's bank. 
And planned to buy, and build, aad rest, 
The while his white flock fed and drank. 
Aye he had thrift and of the best. 
And back, where no rich man laid hands, 
Had bought and bought wide desert lauds. 
But sudden came the rich and strong — 
The old, old tale of cruel wrong. 

"I'll have his lands, "the rich man cried, 
" His lands are broad as his Scotch 

brogue — 
That's saying they are broad and wide. 
I'll have his lands! He calls me rogue. 
Out, out! — away! I will not spare 
One drop from that deep river there." 

And, banished so, they sadly turned. 
The barefoot lass, the bent old man. 
To where the barren desert burned — 
His dog, his gun, a water-can; 
His white flock bleating on before 
All loath to leave the watered shore; 
His dog with drooping tail and ears; 
His barefoot, tattered child in tears. 

They found a rounded mound not far. 
That rose above the sage and sand, 
Where one green willow, like a star 
In some dark night, stood lone and grand. 
And here the can and gun were swung 
In grief, as when lorn Israel hung 



3i6 



APPENDIX. 



Her harp on willow tree aud kept 
Sad silence where she sat aud wept. 

The dog croviched fretful at their feet; 
The woolly fold crept close with fear, 
And one meek lamb did bleat aud bleat, 
So pitiful, so sadly drear. 
The girl crept from the bowed old man, 
Keached up and took the water-can, 
And gave it water while he slept, 
The while she silent wept aud wept. 

Then came gaunt wolves — all sudden 
came — 
And sat in circle close below! 
The dog sprang up, his eyes aflame, 
And all his frame did quiver so! 
Then like a shot right forth he sped, .... 
Crept back all blood, then fell down dead. 
She snatched the guu. No more she 

wept, 
But watched, the while the shepherd slept. 

Then came the moon. Vast peaks of 
snow 
Flashed silver from Sierra's height, 
And lit the lonely scene below 
As if with some unearthly light — 
A light that only made a gloom 
'Mid silence, space, and shoreless room. 
Why, all that mooulit scene but seemed 
Such as half-maddened men have dreamed. 

At last the sun burst like a flame. 
And shaggy wolves fled from the light. 
Then wide-eyed, wondering rabbits came 
Aud stood in circle left aud right. 
They stood so graceful, trim, aud tall, 
You might have guessed this was a ball 
Where dainty dancers, slim aud neat. 
Stood waiting with impatient feet. 

The old man wakened. Why, his fold 
Had crept so close ere break of morn 
That he reached out and there laid hold 
Of his huge ram by one curled horn! 
But then the dog! Ah, there were tears! 
He scarce had wept for years and years, 



But now it seemed his heart would break 
In sorrow for that dead brute's sake. 

He said no word, but silent took 
In his broad, heavy, honest hand 
His long, strong, steel-shod shepherd's 

crook, 
Aud digged a deep grave in the sand. 
But why so eager now? So wild? 
He turns, he catches up his child: 
" My bairn, my bairn, my eyes are dim; 
But bide ye, bide, and trust to Him! " 

Away he sped; and soon he brought 
From some old camp a long black rod 
On his bent back. Then, as he wrought, 
She thought of Moses; prayed to God 
That water for the thirsting flock 
Might flow as from the smitten rock. 
And save her father — save him sane 
There in that fearful desert plain. 

He forced the black tube through the 
sod 
Beneath the waving willow tree 
With giant's strength. Then, as if God 
Had heard, it sank, sank swift aud free — 
Sank sudden through the slime aud sand. 
Sank deep, slid swift, slid from his hand! 
Then he sprang up, aghast aud dazed 
And piteous, as if sudden crazed. 

He caught his guu; he madly wrenched 
The barrels out and thrust this down; 
Aud theu he fell, fell drenched, fell 

drenched 
With floods that leapt as if to drown! 
Aud all Tulare came to drink, 
As happy-faced as you can think. 

Would you hear a little more about my 
home aud trees? I promise you that if 
ever you shall go apart aud bend your face 
to the soil for ten years in planting trees, 
I will gladly give you twice the ten minutes 
required to read the story of it. Here 
it is, with a paragraph of my own at the 
end: 



APPENDIX. 



317 



THE FIRST ARBOE DAY IN CALI- 
FORNIA. 

[Alister Grant, iu the Golden Era Magazine, Jan., 1887.] 

An account of the first Arbor Day in 
California, and the cause that led to iti 
may not be much in the way of light read- 
ing; but some account is at least necessary 
in complete form, so that those desirous 
of referring to its origin in the future may 
find a proper record of it. The movement 
has been well treated by the more import- 
ant of the dailies of San Francisco, but 
for matters of future reference files of 
daily papers being unindexed are out of 
the question. 

The movement that was so successfully 
carried out on the 27th of November, 1886, 
was by no means the beginning of the 
agitation for an Arbor Day; but the first 
decided step was taken by Mr. Joaquin 
Miller in addressing a letter to General 
O. O. Howard, Commander of the Depart- 
ment of the Pacific. The action was one, 
at least, worthy of a poet who, after a 
long absence has come back to his own 
country. The bare brown hills and swel- 
tering valleys of his native land seem to 
have impressed him with these beautiful 
lines : 

" God gave us mother earth, full blest 
With robes of green in healthful fold; 
"We tore the green robes from her breast! 
We sold our mother's robes for gold! " 

This is very nice and very pretty; but 
the planting of trees has even a more im- 
portant benefit than mere beautification. 
Groves of trees break up fogs and winds; 
forests bind the soil upon the hills, and 
even induce rainfall. Verdure tempers 
the wind to the shorn lamb. 

To make any action effective, it was 
necessary to choose a conspicuous point, 
noted for its barrenness, where the first 
work would be in fi;ll view of the people. 



Such a point was found in Terba Buena 
Island (Goat Island), and for that reason it 
was decided to ask the permission of Gen- 
eral Howard. 

A courteous reply having been received, 
in which the General heartily endorsed 
the work, in a letter totheCall, Mr. Miller 
suggested the 30th of October as an ap- 
propriate day. He says : 

" We have agreed that the 30th of Octo- 
ber is a good day to begin with. And on 
that day, at 12 m., if others do not come 
forward to take the work off our hands, 
the Greek cross will be laid on the apex of 
Yerba Buena Island by myself and some 
others writing for the press, and left to 
grow and do good like ' the still small 



The spot on the Island selected for the 
tree-planting was at the top of the hill. 
The ascent was circuitous, a pathway hav- 
ing been made for most of the way up. 
Most of the visitors were ladies and girls, 
and the picture they presented as they 
followed each other by hundreds up the 
rather steep incline, was very striking. 
Those who wandered from the prepared 
path and sought an avenue of their own to 
the summit found the dry thick grass very 
slippery, and they went sliding down fre- 
quently. 

On leaving the boats at the wharf 
the passengers were given souvenir pro- 
grammes which were neatly gotten up. On 
the front page was a picture of Goat Isl- 
and, with the ferry-boat passing by. 
Beneath it in attractive letters was the 
following: 

" The gods, who mortal beauty chase, 
Still in a tree did end their race." 

On the other side was a poem dedicated 
to Joaquin Miller and written by John 
Vance Cheney. 

The beginning of the exercises had been 



3i8 



APPENDIX. 



set for 11 o'clock. When that hour ar- 
rived there were at least one thousand 
people at the top of the hill. Most of 
them were pretty school girls of various 
ages. From the time the United States 
First Infantry Band arrived it played pop- 
ular airs at the summit. 

The place chosen for the planting was 
arranged in the shape of a Greek cross, 
the longer part 300 feet long by 30 feet 
wide, and the transverse part 150 long by 
30 feet wide. The Arbor Day poem was 
then read by Joaquin Miller, after which 
Mr. Fred M. Campbell of Oakland, read an 
address written by General Vallejo for the 
occasion. 

Ex-Governor Perkins paid a tribute to 
General Howard, and spoke of the en- 
couragement and assistance he had given 
to the celebration. He proposed three 
cheers for General Howard, which were 
given with a will. 

General Howard spoke briefly. He 
alluded to the cross and to the catholic 
character of the occasion. 

John P. Irish made a short address. He 
said he believed tree-planting originated 
in Nebraska, twenty-six years ago, where 
the wide plains had been made to yield 
rich harvests through this custom, the 
arable land steadily moving westward at 
the rate of three miles every year, as the 
trees were planted. In that State, and in 
others that had followed Nebraska's ex- 
ample. Arbor Day was a legal holiday, and 
he hoped to see the occasion entrenched 
as a legal holiday in the laws of this State. 
He was glad that this movement was due 
to the inspiration of Joaquin Miller, be- 
cause he is to live in the world's immortal 
literature as the poet of the Sierras, along 
whose slopes man's hand is wasting God's 
prodigal gifts. It was eminently appro- 
priate that to this poet's inspiration these 
mountains should be reclothed with their 
emerald robes and made majestic in their 



forests and groves. He hoped that the 
time would come when these trees would 
be planted in groups, by schools and 
churches — yes, by churches, for the groves 
were God's first temples, and would en- 
dure in solemn grandeur when the temples 
of stone and mortar shall molder to decay. 
Every tree is a tree of life, for it contains 
that which sustains life and gives to us a 
knowledge that leads tis to a higher con- 
templation of the works of God. To-day 
we plant the tree of life and the tree of 
knowledge. 

All this was done and recorded more 
than ten years ago. Permit me to add my 
own brief account of it, and also the story 
of the Arbor Day cross up to date: 

Having helped to plant the eucalyptus 
on the fever- stricken campagna, and 
planted a little while at my cabin in Wash- 
ington, it was proposed on returning to 
California, by some ladies, the Board of 
Forestry, and such men as AJolph Sutro, 
Gen. Howard, and Gen. Vallejo, that we 
should found an Arbor Day, and celebrate 
the event by planting an Arbor Day Cross 
on some conspicuous spot where it would 
be always seen, and perpetually plead the 
sanctity of the tree and the cause of our 
common mother. The Government gave 
Yerba Bueua Island for the purpose and 
the use of a ship; Gen. Howard sent 
soldiers to prepare the ground, and Sutro 
sent 50,000 trees to the school children of 
Oakland and San Francisco. And so, on 
the 27th of November, 1886, the greatest 
day these cities have yet seen, the school 
children^ amid the booming of guns and 
the floating of flags from every ship in the 
bay, planted their Arbor Day Cross on the 
island. But fire swept the island again 
and again, leaving it more barren even 
than before. 

Then I bought the Hights, east of Oak- 
land, overlooking both cities and the great 
bay; Sutro again sent trees, and again the 



APPENDIX. 



319 



school children's cross was planted; for 
the idea and their enthusiasm could not 
perish. Now, to the end that they, and 
the thousand inquiring friends might 
know what has become of their Arbor Day 
Cross after all these years, let me say 
briefly that it is one of the loveliest bits 
of forest in California. Some of the trees 
are higher than a horseman's head now, 
and the cross can be seen from all up and 
down the land, and the higher streets of 
San Francisco. It will be left to the school 
children of the two cities who planted it, 
forever; the probable nucleus of a park, 
which ought to include Redwood Peak. 
*■ * 

ART AND HEART ON THE EIGHTS. 

In line with the continued story of my 
trees and home, let me tell more of the 
Hights and the life there. It really is re- 
quired of me, even at the risk of repetition. 

Pardon me if I must here still answer 
letters in this public way. But so much 
has been said about my "School of 
Poetry " here that I cannot very well end 
this work without a further note of warn- 
ing, advice, explanation to my following: 

The sweetest flowers grow closest to the 
ground. There is no art without heart. 
The art of all art is really to know nature — 
yourself. Better to know of your own 
knowledge, the color, the perfume, the 
nature, the twining, of a single little 
creeping vine in the canon than to know 
all the rocky mountains through a book. 
Man reads too much and reasons too 
little. Great artists are not great readers 
but great observers. They see with the 
heart. The world seems to think the artist 
should be constantly busy with book, 
brush, or pen. His heart like a field, must 
lie fallow long to bring forth greatly. And 
do you know there are poets, great poets, 
perhaps the very greatest, who never 
read a line, and great painters who never 



knew a brush. A certain man comes here 
now and then who has a picture gallery 
in the canon, which he says is worth a 
million. Few if any of us have the 
capacity to see all the pictures of this mil- 
lionaire. 

It is high time that the art world and 
the lesser half of the world should be on 
terms of better understanding. We of the 
art world are too apt to think that the rest 
of the world is heartless. The rest of the 
world is too apt to think that the art 
world is headless . The truth is, as said be- 
fore, a man in trade may be at heart a great 
artist; while a great artist could in many 
cases make money as well as any other 
man; only he might be too ready to give 
it away to some less fortunate than him- 
self. 

Another thing let us note by way of 
finale. Poets, painters, composers, 
fashioners of beautiful forms, are the 
gentlest and purest and most temperate of 
all human beings. Take the poets, espe- 
cially those of America, turn on the high 
white light that beats upon the throne. 
You will not find a fairer galaxy of names 
in all history. Even poor Poe, it is now 
seen, was the victim of envy and malice, — 
the forty failures assaulting the one suc- 
cess. You also find fifty would-be musi- 
cians defaming their betters; and so on 
all along the line. 

It is best that we should get at the 
truth, A truly great poet can be great in 
almost anything, as witness King David, 
Michael Angelo, Milton, and so on. 

We are a sort of hillside Bohemia up 
here, only we have no tape; not even a 
tow string or "strings" of any sort on 
any man or any woman. We don't want 
to know what anyone has been or aspires 
to be, nor are we curious to know what 
he is. These are matters of his own 
account with his Maker. We are never 
numerous, we are never very good, never 



320 



APPENDIX. 



very bad. We have some rules, or rather 
some ideas, that we have formulated, 
melted together, and rounded down, as 
the years rolled by, but we do not intrude 
them on anybody, nor are you to believe 
that we all live up to the best of them; at 
least, I know one who does not. He sees 
that man is still heaving a great stone up 
hill by day to find it rolling back on him 
at night. Yet he hopes and believes ae 
his years pass that he grows a little better; 
as the human race grows better and better, 
while the centuries surge past. 

Very reluctantly I here write down some 
of the ideas, rules, lessons. The sudden 
renown of a little brown-faced student 
here, a mere lad of twenty, famous in a 
day as a poet, almost compels some sort 
of statement; for people are coming here, 
some from far away, to ask idle questions, 
wasting their time and mine. One poor 
woman grimly demanded the terms for 
teaching how to " write poetry in paying 
quantities." 

But mind you, I cannot write of this 
young man. Merit is always shy of men- 
tion, and it would hurt him and help no 
one to tell of him, or how he came to fame 
even while yet a boy. I can only give the 
general rules, tenets, lessons, by which we 
try to live. 

In the first place, then, this Kobin 
Hood's Bohemia on the hillside is rather 
an accident than a design. The first plan 
was to catch, coop up, or cage, the wasted 
energies of the State that had become a 
niaisauce under the general name of 
"Tramp." A house was built on a large 
slice of land with the idea of gradually 
sobering these nomads with the thought 
that an acre with an orchard, cow, and so 
on, would be better than a bed in the 
hayfield or jail. 

Well, read three volumes between the 
lines alojig here. Anyhow, I learned a 
lot. In the first place, these poor crea- 



tures are nearly all if not quite all crazy, 
and the marvel is that with their irregular 
food and regular drink they are not still 
more insane. Such experiences! And such 
emphasized types. Lots of them literary. 
Yet I still think that if I had been far 
away from any town, so that they could 
not have left the "Rest " any time of day 
to get drink and comeback at any time of 
night to sleep, the idea would really have 
been of service to the State. 

Our last experience was with a hairy 
and wild French cook, who had written 
a play, — for Mrs. Langtry, he said, — and 
he summoned mother and I late at night 
to the Rest to hear him read it. What a 
sight. He had cut holes in a white bolster 
case, and with hairy head and arms thrust 
through, a yellow window curtain about 
his waist, and an old pistol in his belt, he 
strode up and down, reading, gesturing, 
roaring, lamp in one hand and papers in 
the other for hours. At last the lamp was 
out and the other tramps fled to the barn, 
but mother could not get away and we 
had to stay till dawn, when he fell ex- 
hausted on the lounge; and that day the 
Tramps' Best was forever "closed for re- 
pairs." 

Then we kept on planting and planting 
and making roads and fountains for an- 
other year or so very quietly. I would 
work with the men for about half the day 
and work with my pen the rest, for I had 
put all my small fortune in the land, so 
must write to keep things going. One day 
a young man who had studied to be a 
preacher came. He put off his coat and 
worked hard all day. This was the first 
" student." He stayed and stayed, and to 
this day comes at intervals and toils and 
meditates, and then goes his way, as j'ears 
ago. He has now some fame with his pen, 
although it is doubtful if he is yet writing 
poetry in "paying quantities." 

Gradually others gathered about, young 



APPENDIX. 



321 



men and women from colleges and univer- 
sities. No one was ever asked to come. 
No one was ever asked to go. Not a dollar 
was ever passed between us. The yoiing 
men were ready to work when anything 
wanted to be done. The women were use- 
ful as companions to mj' venerable mother. 
Some students, not attached to schools, 
stayed a long time. One woman with her 
son stayed five years. Another stayed 
three years. They were a benediction for 
mother. Some men stayed one, two, and 
three years. The stranger always found a 
cot, oftentimes a cottage all to himself. 
He always found a storehouse with simple 
supplies, and even after the i)lace was 
planted to trees and built up, there was 
always wood to get, cows to look after, 
horses, hens, and so on, — and a gentle 
foreman, who has had the management of 
the place from the first, to tell what should 
be done. His effort always has been to 
keep students from doing too much work 
rather than too little. It is doubtful if the 
place has ever lost a dime or if I have lost 
a day by any one after that first grim and 
tei'rible experience with the poor tramps. 
And now what is taught, and how, and 
when? Frankly and truly, nothing, or 
almost nothing, is taught, and almost no 
time is given to the students. It is all in 
the atmosi^here or sense of peace. There 
simply are three or four tenets or prin- 
ciples of life insisted ui^on. The first of 
these is that man is good. This admits of 
no debate. Sit down a little time as you 
stumble headlong in the dust up and down 
the steeps of life, — steeps of your own 
making or imagining as a rule, — and wait 
for the stars or the moon or the morning. 
You will then see that all the world is 
beautiful, beautiful, — magnificently beau- 
tiful. And meantime get a little acquainted 
with your own soul. You will find that 
you are better, a great deal better, than 
you believed as you stumbled so hurriedly 



and so blindly along in the dust, looking 
all the time down in the dirt for money. 
You will also find that those about you 
are better, vastly better than you believed. 
No debating of any sort is allowed. See 
what a saving of time! If I could divert 
the time that is wasted in idle dispute for 
ten years into a right direction, I could 
make an Eden in any country. I simply 
say to my students, " There is not a man 
or woman with the breath of God in his 
or her nostrils who is not good or trying 
to be good according to the strength and 
light. It is your privilege and duty with 
your better culture and opportunities to 
give light and light continually, and 
not so much by word as by deed; not by 
the letter which killeth, but by the spirit 
which maketh alive." 

The truth is, there is a great deal more 
good in the world than it has credit for. 
I doubt if there is a home, never so poor, 
but has some little unseen altar on which 
is daily, almost hourly, laid some little 
sweet sacrifice, some little touch of pity 
and tenderness for the poor pale mother, 
the weary worn father, the little sick baby. 
It is our place to give them more and more 
love to lay on the unseen altar, more light, 
more light; so that they may have more 
heart, hope, strength. 

The second lesson after the love of man 
is the love of nature. As there is no en- 
tirely bad man in his right mind, on earth, 
so is there no entirely ugly thing in nature. 
My daughter's pony died one night, and 
as she dearly loved the poor beast, I had 
it buried under a little willow in the ditch. 
But the coyotes disturbed the earth and 
bad odors drew a circle of vultures. 

"That seems to disprove the second 
tenet," said a student. 

"Wait and see. Nature is too majestic 
to make haste. Perhaps even now she is 
building better than you know." 

This was six years ago. Last month a 



322 



APPENDIX. 



party of campers came by and asked con- 
sent to spend a week under the little wil- 
low. For it was now as broad as the barn. 
I was told in Jerusalem that Jesus passing 
down the valley of Jehosaphat with his 
disciples came upon the remains of a dog. 
They gathered their garments and with 
lifted faces hurried by. But Jesus, paus- 
ing a moment and reaching his face a little, 
said softly, " What beautiful teeth! " 

The third and undebated lesson after 
the goodness of man and the beauty of the 
world is the immortality of man. Yes, 
there may be those who do not live again. 
Tou may sow your field as carefully as you 
can, yet there are many worthless grains 
that will not come up, but will rot and re- 
solve again into earth. And may it not be 
that this fearful disease of unbelief is a 
sort of crucial test? May it not be that 
if you be so weak as to say you shall be 
blown out as a caudle and so drop into 
everlasting darkness, that it shall be so? 

We begin the next life where we leave 
off in this. I see this in the little seeds 
that sift down from the trees and lie under 
the shroud of suow in the hollow of His 
hand, the winter through, waiting the 
roaring March winds to trumpet through 
the pines and proclaim the resurrection. 
I read it in every blade of grass that carpets 
God's footstool; every spear is a spear to 
battle for this truth. Every blade of grass 
is a bent saber waving us forward with 
living evidence of immortality, for it has 
soen the resurrection, and each and all 
began where they left off in the life before. 

A fourth and very practical lesson is on 
economy. Nature wastes nothing, nothing; 
least of all does nature waste time. Yet 
nature is never in haste, and this practical 
lesson broadens and broadens as we go 
forward. Ah me, the waste that is in this 
world at the hands of man! Looking 
away down yonder, I can count more than 
forty church si:>ires. More than forty 



great big churches; and not one single 
place, except a library or two and a station 
or two, where a stranger can wash his 
hands or observe the simplest decencies of 
life without going into some saloon. 
Forty great empty churches, with soft 
cushions, some of them, yet not one place, 
outside of the jail, where a man without 
money can lay his head. 

The other day one of my women stu- 
dents dropped quite a handful of beans 
where she was washing them at a fountain. 
When I saw those beans there in the grass 
and mud, I got down and picked most of 
them up and took them to her. Nothing 
was said. After a time, chancing to look 
that way, I saw she was down on her 
hands and knees hunting for beans where 
I had left off. I am sure she will never 
waste anything any more. 

You say this is not poetry, that I teach 
only plain common sense? I assure you 
that the only true poetry is plain common 
sense. The only true poetry is truth: 
the Eight: Heart. 

If we could only save the time and 
money that is wasted in barber shops. 
The barber is not a bad man, but we make 
him a slave, and then we will hardly 
speak to him on the street. I am sure he 
is often disgusted with some diity cus- 
tomer. We make his place an unclean 
place of unclean stories. We Americans 
make more than one hundred thousand 
fairly good men most abject slaves. What 
a waste of their manhood! What a waste 
of our time and money; and all to flatter 
our own vanity, to conceal our honorable 
years, to fly in the face of nature, and to 
appear what we are not. 

And the funerals! Poor Dickens crying 
out with Victor Hugo, "Please, please, 
no funeral when I am gone! " And yet 
see what we do! My students, and you 
may be many ere I leave my ashes on 
yon pine-set peak, do not depart from 



APPENDIX. 



323 



this lesson. Yes, we have our own little 
" God's acre; " for death is here, as else- 
where, gentle, dark-browed mother Death, 
and we lay our dead there with our own 
hands, all repeating the Lord's prayer. 
No waste of words or money or time. And 
we pass that way in our walks to the 
canon and the redwoods and we are not 
3ad. The cows rest there by the graves. 
There is no waste there. No poor man 
must water and weed them for hire. 
Elarth to earth, dust to dust, and ashes to 
ashes; and all who care to come without 
noise or display and lay their dead with 
ours can do so. 

Finally, in this the dark age of getting 
and getting, — and if getting and getting is 
not a crime, it is the parent of crime, — 
one word as to the question about -'pro- 
ducing poetry in paying quantities." 
Does poetry pay? Aye, poetry pays as 
nothing on this earth ever paid. Where 
would Rome be to-day but for her poetry? 
She would be in the dust and despised 
with Nineveh and Babylon. But her 
poets preserved her, and to this day we 
are paying Italy millions and millions 
only to look upon the scenes they saw. 

No, this is not a "School of Poetry." 
It is not even a fit place for it. But all 
along the Sierras, from Tacoma to San 
Diego, there are thousands of fit places, 
remote from the roar of trade and the in- 
trusion of the foolish. 

And these few simple lessons not from 
books, toil, faith in man, love of nature, 
certainty of immortality, the simple but 
severe teachings of economy in all nature, 
these are at hand for all, and anywhere 
that the morning sun of this land of song 
shall find you. 

As for methods or detail of teaching the 
divine art of song, I have none. I never 
read, nor allow anyone to read to me a 
manuscript. The reasons are too many 
to mention, but mainly, it would destroy 



individuality. We are born alone, we 
must die alone; and so should meditate, 
work, live, alone. 

Some general rules of course prevail. 
The first is some concession to the fact 
that the world is going at a swifter pace 
than of old. Even Homer could not find 
either publisher or readers to-day. There- 
fore, cut, cut, cut. Then work it over 
and cut again. Then, in most cases, — 
burn. Don't be afraid to rub out the 
sum. You are only at school, as a rule. 
And above all don't write for either fame 
or money. Write for your own soul, the 
good, the beautiful. First, the kingdom 
of Heaven, then all the rest. 1 

Nor shall the true artist fear hunger. 
No one who is willing to work can go 
hungry in this fruitful land, and no one 
who is not willing to work, and live sim- 
ply and apart from the tumult of trade, 
should aspire to be a poet, painter, com- 
poser, or fashioner of beautiful forms. 
For on all triumph in this life is laid a 
mighty tribute. You must render unto 
Caesar the things that are Ctesar's. Take 
counsel of nature. Look at the trees cast- 
ing down their golden leaves generously 
at the end of the year's fruitage, fearing 
nothing. They lift their arms in attitude 
of prayer to God, certain that they shall 
be garmented again and glorified and made 
even more beautiful than before, all in due 
season. Look at the rose, — the generous 
rose. 

That tears the silken tassel of her purse 
And all her perfume o'er the garden throws. 

In brief, to be a poet, artist of any sort, 
you must not only feel your art, but live 
your art; humblj% patiently, continually 
live it. And do not disdain others in 
other walks of life. I repeat, the greatest 
poets never penned a line^ Let us con- 
cede the same in other walks of art, for it 
is true. 



324 



APPENDIX. 



In the line of economy I urge that art- 
ists, if not all men, should rest and rise 
with the birds. There is a deal of non- 
sense about " midnight oil," and little or 
no good. God made the day for man; but 
the night for beasts; and beasts have rights. 

In the same line it is foolishness to fight 
back. See what a saving of time, temper, 
energy, by refusing to answer the low and 
envious who make a target of yoiir fame. 
Equip yourself as best you can and then 
descend into the arena to fight, and to 
fight forward, not back. The man who 
stops and faces about to hit back at those 
who stab in the dark and when he is dis- 
advantaged, as is always the way, is a 
weak man and ready to run. No truly 
great man will ever hit back. 

We hold, with Socrates, that a man's 
first duty is to the State, and that how- 
ever delightful it might be to house in 
Arcadia and forget all care, we are all 
born to responsibilities and must each 
account for the talent given him. 

Among other mild reforms, we hold that 
when a man has done with a great fortune, 
it should go to the State, proportionately 
with the widow and orphan, when he 
leaves it. This crowding the law courts 
and compelling good citizens from their 
work to listen to the perjuries of heirs 
and the hard lives of depraved and miserly 
old men certainly is demoralizing. 

But, as said before, we intrude nothing. 
We simply plow and plant and sow. When 
the State gets ready to reap it will reap. 

NOTES ON A NEGLECTED BOOK. 

And now, with this final appeal to the 
young sentinels on the watch towers of 
the world, I conclude this book; and much 
in the same strain with which it began. 

I was once asked to join some earnest 
thinkers of the time in the review of im- 
portant books — such as seemed to the 



writer to receive less attention than their 
merits challenged. I answered, as nearly 
as I can recall, about as follows: Remote- 
ness from book centers, out here on the 
sunset rim of civilization, is my excuse, 
to say nothing of the merits of the matter, 
for calling attention to some pages that are 
not at all new. Behind this is the desire 
to answer, in some sort, the very many in- 
quiries that continually pursue the writer 
as to what is the best book for young au- 
thors to read and follow in the formation 
of style. 

The remarkable work to which I invite 
a few moments' attention, rare as all other 
books of special merit are and were, from 
the first, in California, was never missing 
in our midst here from the earliest days. 
But it was rarely read. Nobody would 
borrow it. This book refused to get lost. 
All other books were "dog-eared," worn 
at the corners, despoiled of cover and fly- 
leaf; but this special one would work its 
way down to the bottom of the trunk — 
although the fond mother or sister may 
have placed it tenderly at the top and 
ready at hand — and there it would lie for 
years and years, the neatest and the clean- 
est thing to be found. And yet for state- 
liness of style, simplicity of diction, 
directness of thought, and majesty of 
utterance, it is unmatched in all the array 
of books, old or new, to be found on the 
shelves of the British Museum. 

Let the young authors whom I hope to 
profit in this answer take the verj' first line 
in this neglected work, take the very first 
words, "In the beginning." Lay down 
your book now. Pause right here and con- 
template, comprehend if you can, even 
though it be never so little, the awful force 
and directness and simplicity of this. 
"In the beginning." Where? When? 
What ? Above all, when ? How fearfully 
and incomprehensibly far away! 

But let us go on with the line: " In the 



APPENDIX. 



325 



beginning God — " Pause here long, my 
young author. Now add the next words, 
and read: *' In the beginning God created 
the heaven — " Now take the next sen- 
tence: "And the earth was without form, 
and void; and darkness was upon the face 
of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved 
upon the face of the waters. And God 
said, Let there be light: and there was 
light." 

How many paragraphs, pages, books 
■would a modern author devote to telling 
this? 

Mark you, I am looking at this in quite 
a worldly way. It is the boast of too 
many of us that these words are, to our 
thinking, entirely the work of a man. As 
for myeelf, I can only say, "If so, oh for 
another such man! " 

The present writer was required to ad- 
dress the Jews in their synagogue here 
recently on the subject of poetry. He 
searched for poetry in many pages; waded 
through modern books, and kept going 
back, back, back, till the very fountain- 
head was reached. And here, and here 
only, in his humble opinion, did he find 
poetry in all its largeness and splendor of 
thought and utterance. Take the picture 
of Jacob blessing his sons. "And when 
Jacob had made an end of commanding 
his sons, he gathered up his feet into the 
bed, and yielded up the ghost." To a man 
who has seen little of life, less of death, 
this last quotation may mean nothing. But 
I have stood by the death-bed of too many 
of the old golJ-hunters to miss the real- 
istic truth and simplicity of this sentence. 
A.h! those weary, weary feet. They had 
wandered as Jacob wandered. Their feet 
were weary as his feet were weary. And 
I know, as surely as I know I live, that he 
died just as it is written in this grand and 
neglected record: "he gathered up his 
feet into the bed, and yielded up the 
ghost."* 



I appeal to all young writers, let not 
priest, or preacher, or any early distastes 
stand between you and these pages in the 
sincerity and simplicity of utterance. 
Give the severe and naked truth. Leave 
imaginings to the reader, for this same 
reader is rarely the fool we conceive him 
to be. The fact is, the world is so flooded 
with our work that it has not nearly time 
to get through with it, and right soon we 
must return to simplicity if we hope to be 
read. 

And not only simplicity of motive, but 
majesty of utterance must be ours. To 
find this largeness, brevity, and majesty 
in its most real and perfect form we must 
go back to the verj'^ heart of this great, 
neglected book. You will hardly find this 
perfect combination of great qualities in 
poetry this side of the book of Job. 

' ' Where is the way where light dwelleth ? 

And as for darkness, where is the place 
of it? 

Hast thou entered into the treasures of 
the snow, or hast thou seen the treas- 
ures of the hail?. . . . 

Hath the rain a father? Who hath begot- 
ten the drops of dew ? . . . . 

The hoary frost of heaven, who hath 
gendered it? " 

These lines, with their eternal inquiry, 
their knowledge of nature, their faith in 
a being above man, glorious and stately 
figures, are taken at random from a half 
page of the oldest written poem extant — 
so old that it is new. It was written when 
man was nearer to God than now. It was 
written when the page of nature was new; 
when the whole world was poetry. 

"Where is the way where light dwell- 
eth?" The golden doors of dawn, where 
are they? And as for darkness, with all 
its majesty, its mystery, its large solem- 
nity, its somber and silent dominion of 



326 



APPENDIX. 



the universal world, where is the place of 
it? 

Yes, I concede that science has located 
the source of light; and science has also 
sagely announced that darkness is the ab- 
sence of light. But for all that, light and 
the ways of light are not the less new and 
wonderful and glorious and Godlike every 
day and hour to all who will heed — this 
first creation, this very first work of the 
Creator, And darkness is, to a sensate 
soul, none the less awful, mysterious — the 
mother of death. 

"Hath the rain a father? And the 
hoary frost of heaven, who hath gendered 
it?" 

These awful elements of nature are the 
same as when they first fell from the finger 
of God. The great white, beautiful, high- 
bora rain is still the same as when the 
majestic poet of old sat and sang so close 
to Nature that he heard the beating of her 
heart. The fierce and fervid way of the 
lightning up the walls of heaven; the aw- 
ful autograph of God, written audibly on 
the porch of His eternal house, is the same 
as of old. All, all are precisely the same; 
but our poets see these things no more 
now. Nature, God, has not forgotten us, 
but our poets have forgotten Nature, God! 

The pursuit of happiness is a constitu- 
tional right; it is strengthening, refining, 
and, within certain limits, it is every way 
laudable. Well, it seems to me that I 
have found the path which leads to happi- 
ness, to wealth of soul, and to rest and 
health of body. There is no tax nor toll; 
no tribute-taker sits by this open way; 
and not only the treasures of the snow 
and the stormy glories of the hail, but the 
treasures of all the earth, the treasures 
and glories of the heavens and the earth; 
are his who cares to have them. But 
these treasures may not be taken up sud- 
denly and then tossed aside as a child 
tosses aside its toys. Nor are they to be 



had by any foolish soul simply for the 
asking. These treasures, like all other 
treasures, must either be clearly inherited 
or honestly earned. 

How long does it take to gi-ow a rose- 
tree in a garden ? How long are we will- 
ing to sit by and watch the growth of an 
olive grove? One, two, five, ten years? 
And yet how long is it since you planted 
in your soul, in the richest center of your 
heart, the love of nature, the love of 
beauty — beauty of form; beauty of light; 
beaiity of color; beauty of life? 

" And the Lord God planted a garden 
eastward in Eden, . . . and out of 
the ground made the Lord God to grow 
every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and 
good for food." 

Please observe " that every tree that was 
pleasant to the sight " came first. That 
which was "good for food" came last. 
The soul was to be fed first, here in this 
garden which the Lord God planted east- 
ward in Eden; the body last. Ah! far, 
very far, have we wandered awaj', like 
lost children, from the place where "the 
Lord God planted every tree that is pleas- 
ant to the sight;" and no prophets sit by 
the wayside, as of old, and cry aloud to 
the people, "Where is the way where 
light dwelleth?" 

Were I to undertake to write down the 
alphabet — the very first lesson in the ap- 
preciation — of poetry, I should begin with 
the first lesson of God, the very first: 
"And God said, Let there be light: and 
there was light." The next lesson, the 
next letter of the alphabet, would be given 
in the garden. I would plant a tree 
"pleasant to the sight." I would mark 
the miracle of its development, its purity, 
its perfume, its perfect form and continual 
comeliness, its steady and upright stand 
against storms that sometimes seem almost 
to uproot it, and yet all for its own good; 
I would catch the airy colors of that tree, 



APPENDIX. 



327 



mark all its moods, the light and shade; 
would read its leaves through and through 
each day; I would listen to the song of the 
wind in its branches, for this is poetry — 
God's poetry. 

But who of us cares now for " the way 
where light dwelleth ? " Who cares now 
for the poetry written on the lisping 
leaves of a tree? Who cares now for 
" every tree that is pleasant to the sight? " 
Man has built for himself huge walls to 
shut out the light. The flowers that 
blossom continually along the pages of 
the prophets of old he never sees any 
more. The parables of that divinely beau- 
tiful young Jew, Christ, in the language 
of flowers all over the laud, are to him as 
a book that is sealed. Yet the world 
keeps continually crying out: "Where are 
the prophets? Where are the poets? " I 
answer: Can a prophet prophecy without 
faith? Can a poet sing without hope? 
Hope is joyous, jubilant, immortal. 
Doubt is despair, desperation, death — 
death of body and soul. 

I say you might as well send a man out 
in the darkness to gather flowers on yon 
sunny hillside as to ask poetry of an age 
when faith and hope and charity are 
rudely thrust aside by the hard, mailed 
hand of doubt. Yea, the blind man may 
gather some few flowers as the night goes 
by, but he will gather weeds and thistles 
and poisonous plants as well. We have 
gathered some few sweet flowers of song 
by the long, long road that reaches back 
to humble Bethlehem, but we have gath- 
ered weeds; much that is worse than 
weeds. 

On the glowing, olive-set hills of Syi-ia, 
the burning sands of Arabia, by the blaz- 
ing shores of the Bed Sea where Moses 
saw the face of God in the burning bush, 
where men believed, and when men be- 
lieved, wheu they had faith in God and 
hope in the Promised Land, there and then 



was poetry conceived. The forty years in 
the wilderness, the full fervor of heat 
and light in the open fields, the commu- 
nion, heart to heart, with nature — there in 
the wilderness and by the wayside was 
planted the germ of songs that have out- 
lived the thousand thousand books writ- 
ten within the walls of luxurious Europe; 
books that, strangely enough, are often 
fashioned from story aud incident stolen 
from the glowing Orient lauds aud the 
waters of the Levaut. 

Do you recall the time in our history 
when the sermon and the song were heard 
from Maine to the banks of the Missis- 
sippi? — when the Peter Cartwrights and 
the Lorenzo Dows blazed the way through 
the wilderness, for civilization to follow? 
Ah! there was faith then; there was hope 
then. By the light of their cabin fires 
these simple Methodists prayed and sang 
and believed. They and they alone, after 
the praying Puritans, set deep in the soil 
of freedom the foundation-stones of this 
nation. By the light of their cabiu fires 
they married their daughters in Faith; by 
the light of their cabin fires they buried 
their dead in Hope. They, in that grand 
pilgrimage pointing to this westmost 
shore, planted seed that surely should 
have flowered long ere this by this great 
sea. But what followed ? What followed 
over the graves of those grand and simple- 
minded old Methodists ? those prophets in 
buckskin? What followed but the golden 
calf, with his cloven foot? The seed they 
planted was trampled into dust, so that 
to-day we not only have no poet, but we 
have not even the hope of a poet. For we 
have no faith; we have no charity; wo 
have little or no real religion at all. 

Not long ago a worthy friend, a rich 
San Francisco preacher, came to see me 
where I was at work among my olive- 
trees. 



328 



APPENDIX. 



" Pretty rough piece of ground you have 
here." 

" Yes, sir; rough under foot, but as 
smooth overhead as any man's land." 

"Ahem! Will olives pay here?" 

This was his first and last concern. 
The clink of the golden chain which bound 
that man's neck to the golden calf with 
the cloven foot was heard to rattle on my 
stony steeps as he spoke. Will olives pay 
here? 

Pay? Pay? In every breath of the 
sweet sea-wind that lifts their silvery 
leaves in the sun I am paid; paid in im- 
perishable silver every day. I see in their 
every leaf the olive branch of the dove 
of old. The olive branch and the breast 
of the dove are of the same subdued sil- 
ver hue to-day as in the days of Noah — as 
if the olive branch and the dove had in 
some sort kept companionship ever since 
the days of the deluge. 

If there is a poem, written or unwritten; 
a song, sung or unsung, sweeter or more 
plaintive than that of the dove singing in 
the silver-gray olive tree on the mountain 
steeps, singing in that sad, far-off way, 
as if the waste of waters still encompassed 
her, and " she found no rest for the sole 
of her foot, " — if there is anything at all 
in my humble path of life that is higher 
or holier with messages to man, I have 
not found it. 

And yet, still miast we ask, when will 
our great interpreter come ? When will 
the true prophet, priest, poet, preacher 
come to us? For we are continually re- 
minded that it is by the voice of the poet 
only that a nation is allowed to survive. 
Jerusalem has been permitted to come 
down to us forever glorified; she cherished 
the poets; but where is Babylon who cast 
the prophets in the lions' den ? Nineveh 
was a city of three days' journey; Nineveh 
would not hear; and where is Nineveh 
now? But Jerusalem, city of poetry and 



song! And this is simply because she 
had Faith and Hope; and so had her poets, 
and did not despise them; and her poets 
made her immortal; and so of Athens. 

The cloven foot of the golden calf is 
stamping out every page of this great, 
neglected book. So great is the wealth of 
the leading families of our cities that al- 
most ;every hearthstone might be paved 
with gold. Yet Socrates died for want of 
money enough to pay a fine. True or false, 
the Greeks had gods, even the unknown 
God of which Paul spoke; and they be- 
LiKVED. They had Faith and Hope. And 
so their poets sang, sang in marble. They 
sang in music, sang in the eternal melody of 
beautj'; and their country lives forever. 

No, the poet cannot prove to you the 
immortality of the soul. There are things 
that rise above the ordinary rules of police 
court evidence, and this is of them. He 
cannot prove to you, under the strict 
rules of legal evidence even that the sun 
will rise to-morrow. But it will surely rise. 
And just as surely shall the soul of man be 
saved; if it be worth saving, make your 
soul worth saving, that is all. 

Let me invoke your adoration of the 
light — God's first born. Love the light, 
and every beautiful blade of grass, and all 
the myriad beauties that only light can 
bring. By this light read continually the 
pages of God's poetry; breathe the per- 
fume, hear the melodies, love all the glori- 
ous things by the path of God through 
this beautiful, beautiful world, where, on 
every side, the heavens and the earth seem 
opening wide, as a book that is to be read. 
Then will come this new poet, this true 
prophet, toiling, maybe, in the fields, 
toiling certainly somewhere, as God toils 
continually, as Christ, the carpenter, 
toiled. He will come, and he will stay 
where he can hear the heart-beats of na- 
ture, and the birds can take him into their 
confidence. He will not come from marble 



APPENDIX. 



329 



halls or massive walls, but he will come 
lovingly, humbly, as divine in his humility 
RS the men of old, as Christ, with lilies 
aud the olive leaf. 

Let me even at the risk of repetitiou 
once more call attention to the very few 
words in this marvelous and majestic book 
of poetry. I freely confess I owe more 
to this book than all others put together, 
and make no apology for continually re- 
ferring to its beautiful lines. Only about 
seven thousand words! Yet Noah "Web- 
ster died with the boast on his lips that 
he had made a dictionary of nearly two 
hundred thousand words! Then came the 
Century Dictionary of two hundred and 
fift}' thousand words. The Standard 
comes next with three hundred thousand 
words! Why at this rate we will soon 
have as many words as a Chinaman, and 
perhaps as few ideas. My young followers, 
learn all the words you can, but use as few 
as possible. Have a whole standing army 
of words at your back; buy and read and 
learn these great big books, every one, if 
you can, but I repeat and repeat, and end 
this book where I began by begging you, 
if you have a victory to win, to remember 
the magic of the single short Eoman 
sword in reaching the heart. Keep the 
truthful beauty, the brevity of the bible 
before you always. Look for good in all 
things and you will find good in all things. 
Look for the tree that is "pleasant to the 
sight," and you will see no other kind. 

In line with this " Garden eastward in 
Eden," and of "every tree that is pleas- 
ant to the sight," what are we to do in the 
next world who see nothing " pleasant to 
the sight " in this? By what system of 
hydraulics are we to lift ourselves up to 
waters of life in the next world when we 
ignore them in this? It is out of nature 
that I shall enjoy the jasper walls, the 
melodies, the glory of the great white 
throne, the companionship of angels, the | 



love of the great Jehovah, when I know 
nothing of these things here. I repeat 
and repeat that it is written in every breath, 
on every leaf, that we begin the next life 
exactly where we leave off in this. The 
honest man here must begin the honest 
man there; the thief here, must begin life 
the thief there; even though the penitent 
thief. And the beautiful story of the thief 
on the cross ? Literally true. " This day 
thou shaltbewith me in paradise." Aye, 
literally so. But paradise must be a vast 
place to receive all the endless generations 
of men. And I should say that when that 
poor honest thief, never so good, never so 
penitent, came to the shining presence of 
the angels, why he put up his hands 
pleadingly to his hurt eyes and cried, 
" Take me away, away to the green and 
wooded wilderness on the remotest outer 
edge of Paradise, and there leave me till 
I can learn to bear this light, till I by 
keeping my face to the light may be per- 
mitted to come this way slowly, surely, as 
I should have done in the beginning of 
my years. Trust me, I am penitent, so 
truly penitent that I know I cannot en- 
dure this light till I have learned a little of 
truth, harmony, melody, color, and love 
of all things that 'are pleasant to the 
sight.' " 

I like the story of that honest old negro 
woman who, on telling her "experience" 
at camp meeting, said that she hoped to 
get to heaven, where she could "put on a 
white apron an' jis' sit down an' rest an' 
rest an' rest." Poor jDent up and starved 
old soul, that was her idea of heaven, her 
highest idea, but she is of those who will 
be asked to " come up higher." 

A quarter of a century ago, before they 
pulled down the cross and stations from 
the arena of the Coloseum and buried 
many pretty traditions under the ruins, 
there lay, half way from the Arch of Titus, 
a great shapeless block of marble, half 



330 



APPENDIX. 



buried in the weeds and grass by the dusty 
path. And here the renowned Michael 
Angelo, in the zenith of his might, was 
found in the twilight, leaning on this 
marble and mourning bitterly. 

"And what means this? Michael An- 
gelo alone and in tears, and yet all the 
world his to be had for the asking! Pray 
why is this, Michael Augelo? " 

"Oh, my sweet friends, as I was pass- 
ing by, I saw such a vision — such a divine- 
ly beautiful form, hidden in this dusty 
and shapeless block of marble — that I 
needs must weep because I am no longer 
young and strong to take my mallet and 
chisel and reveal that matchless beauty to 
man ! " 

Whose fault is it that we, too, do not 
see the beautiful form in the shapeless 
block? "Who is to blame that we, too, do 
not at least see " every tree that is pleasant 
to the sight?" But, behold that is the 
source, the secret of light. There is not 
a block or a rock by the roadside but holds 
the imap;e of an angel-God. 

The happiest and the best people, at 
least of my class, are the humble wood- 
carvers high up in the northern Alps. 
They carve images of Jesus and the 
Virgin for the poorer churches of South 
America; and, like Michael Angelo, they 
Bee forms of beauty in every block at 
hand. And how many great men have 
descended from these bleak passes to take 
part in the story of the world! They love 
all beauty; all. When the first born, or 
the elder son, comes of age and goes 
forth, as is the custom, to battle with the 
world and better the fortunes of loved 
ones left behind, the mother pulls a 



flower, a leaf, a blade of grass, as she goes 
with the others down the rough field to 
the gate, and she places this between the 
lids of the little Book of books quietly, 
tenderly. Not a word is said as she hands 
him his holy equipments for the fight of 
life before him; but he understands. An- 
other time, under other skies, he will 
open the Book, will read some sweet 
meaning, long and tender lesson from the 
flower, leaf or grass blade therein. And 
he the better, braver, for this simple bit 
from the book of nature. It is mother's 
flower, leaf or blade of grass, and wherever 
that meets his vision as he travels the 
wilds of Australia or the cornfields of 
America, his heart will beat high, and he 
will not be lonely then. He will hear the 
birds, as at home; he will smell the sweet, 
moist mosses of his mountain home; he 
will see goodness, glory, beauty, in 
" every tree that is pleasant to the sight." 
His heart is good. He has learned to love 
the beautiful, to look for the beautiful in 
all things, and so will he find the beauti- 
ful in all things to the end. 

Let us remember always that man is not 
wicked, but weak, ignorant — piteously 
weak in his ignorance. The best of us 
have blemishes, weak spots here and there, 
now and then. There are spots even in 
the sun. There is also an infinity of 
light. God made the spots, and He will 
look to the spots. Let us concern our- 
selves with the light. 

And ever and ever His boundless blue. 
And ever and ever His green, green sod. 
And ever and ever between the two 
Walk the wonderful winds of God. 






■ r ■'.■.;. }-C 'J 
















:-:>■. A' 






'- * "-s^Pmft-fr.jft '^ -1^ ■•^v; -V^. - . . r : ,. • .v 




|^:'>^'^r, -^^^■' ■- ■ 










i 






